The Sicilian Families
by magicjohnson32
Summary: "If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone." Welcome to Italy, where the Cosa Nostra Mafia control their world, and Alex Rider is deep undercover trying to bring them down from the inside.
1. Chapter 1

Alex stood in front of the full length mirror, a pronounced grimace on his face as he buttoned up his dress shirt. The silk slid over his skin smoothly as he buttoned the French cuffs, slipping the silver cufflinks through the buttonhole.

His fingers moved over his abdomen, relishing its freshly unscarred nature, skin grafts having rectified what surgery could not. He casually tucked his shirt in, the white silk bow tie hanging from the collar, which he deftly knotted, before reaching to his bed a grasping his dinner jacket.

The inside label read _Anderson and Sheppard_, and Alex knew that the bespoke tailoring of Savile Row fitted him perfectly, as he had paid for two weeks previous when he was informed that he would be attending the event this evening.

The sound of the intercom buzzing downstairs alerted him to the fact there was someone at the gate, and he shrugged the jacket off momentarily, and searching through his draws.

He grabbed his wallet, Italian leather naturally, and also his side holster with his weapon of choice; a Beretta M9 FS 9mm handgun, stored in a custom holster designed to be carried concealed. Alex never went without it.

Similarly, he strapped his Fairbairn and Sykes Fighting Knife to his calf. More than half a century old, Alex respected the craftsmanship of the traditional brand of choice for the British SAS so much he never used anything else.

He carefully laced his handcrafted John Lobb dress shoes, and placed his cell into the inner pocket, finally clipping the white-gold Figaro chain style bracelet that had been a gift from an Arabian prince onto his left wrist as he descended the wooden stairs of his Chelsea home.

He paused at the door only to engage the security system, typing in the 25 digit code with practiced ease, before closing it after him. He paused once more on the doorstep to activate the pressure pads in the hall, living room, bedroom and his office, as well as the cameras and nerve gas system.

Similarly, while MI6 had refused his application to run an electric charge through his gate on the grounds that it may injure passers-by accidentally, the top of his ten foot high walls were protected in this manner, and any attempt to move the gate from its current position without the correct code would result in an almost fatal voltage being passed through that individuals body.

Alex's shoes crunched on the gravel as he moved to the gate, where a pair of headlights shone through the bars, lighting his path. He manoeuvred his body between the keypad and the car as his fingers danced over the numbers, his trust not even extending to the man MI6 had sent to transport him to his destination.

He slipped through the gap in the gate, and closed it after him. As per MI6 protocol, the driver said nothing as he slipped into the vehicle, and Alex settled into the leather backseat of the black Mercedes, and flicked through the dossier that was waiting beside him casually.

He didn't read it carefully; he knew the basic premise by heart. The inherent disadvantages to being the only seventeen year old on the books at MI6 were that he was automatically assigned to any duty involving targets or people of interest who were still minors.

As was agency policy, when an 'employee' was off duty, i.e. between larger assignments, they were compelled to assist with domestic security events which MI5 has somehow managed to convince the Home Secretary and the Minister of Defence that this was the best use of MI6 resources. They were a bunch of conniving pricks in Alex's opinion, crippled by their own internal political manoeuvring, but they had managed to dodge a considerable bullet on behalf of their agents, security duty.

The bane of Alex's existence. He'd only flown back in from Morocco two weeks prior, and was looking forward to some rest and catching up on school work before his finals. Instead, before they'd even finished debriefing him on his two months in North Africa, he was rostered on to his least favourite security detail of all; protection of the Prime Minister's eldest daughter.

For two years now, whenever the Prime Minister's daughter had appeared in a public place, if available, it was Alex that was called on to provide the personal security detail. Sienna, or 'no.3' as she was referred to through the radio system, was only a year and a half older than Alex but lived a very different lifestyle. She came from wealth, and obviously resented the limits applied to her by her father's position, rebelling against them as often as possible. This led to notable occasions when her assigned security attachment had been given the slip, and led to some very nervous moments inside the security agencies.

It had been the night of her eighteenth birthday that Alex was first called upon to provide security, as her birthday was to be held at the Aura nightclub in St. James Street, Mayfair, and the owners of the venue were justifiably unhappy about having several large individuals hanging around in suits with weapons on the grounds that it would be bad for business, on top of Prime Minister's daughters assertion that she would be as difficult as possible.

It was no help that she was regular tabloid fodder within her own country and even overseas, hunted mercilessly by the paparazzi for her combination of affluence, prestige of position, rebellious ways, and last but certainly not least, attractive appearance.

Alex had been excused from a majority of security details up until that point on the grounds that he was too valuable as a field operative to risk on such mundane work, but he was too perfect for the role it was decided. So Alex, his trusty Beretta 9mm stowed in the back of his designer skinny jeans, sat at the bar sipping his soda water and lemon while observing the table of screaming girls with a certain distaste as they ran the clubs supply of champagne dry.

At one point during the evening, one of the friends had tottered over in her heels and virtually non-existent cocktail dress, and introduced herself to Alex while wrapping a firm arm around his waist, pulling him close.

Alex had kept his cool and manoeuvred the two of them so the friends who were watching them couldn't see his face, curtly informing her that he wasn't interested, then slipping away to take up another vantage point.

Tonight's event was a dinner party filled to the brim with political and social dignitaries, from the royal family to chart-topping pop stars, nominally present to support some charity or other. It was being held on the banks of the Thames, in front of the Houses of Parliament which had been cordoned off the day before to prepare.

Alex would be posing as a guest, as conventional security would not be allowed close enough to reasonably do their job, at the behest of the Prime Minister, who didn't want to 'spread paranoia and fear' to the people. This was much to the chagrin of Alan Blunt, who held very different priorities when it came to security.

The Mercedes pulled up in the car park behind Westminster, and Alex removed the earpiece from the dossier onto which it had been stuck, and placed it carefully in his ear. Immediately he could hear all the security chatter that was going on all over the event, giving him information about the entire perimeter that had been formed, including those stationed on the rooves of the buildings on both banks and the water patrols that were buzzing along the river.

Alex had both a security tag and an invite, which he had been given in case he was challenged during the evening. He flashed his security ID as he picked his way through the tradesman's entrance, behind the catering trucks and surveillance vans. The entire operation was a nightmare for those who were in charge of protecting the party, hundreds of guests who were all viable targets, all in an open space with numerous sightlines and entry points.

Alex was relieved he only had one assignment, and as he was buzzed through into the party, he began to pick his way through the early arrivals, typically the less well known individuals seeking some publicity, well aware that they would be ignored by the press scrum that had formed out the front once the real showstoppers made their entrances.

The arrival of 'no.3' along with her parents, numbers one and two, half an hour after Alex's own, had given him plenty of time to check his own security measures, which amounted to checking exit routes and then settling down for some dinner in the form of the stupid little assortments that were being offered up on silver platters by overdressed waiters.

By this time, the event was much more crowded, and the bulbs of the select few photographers who had been granted entrance exploded at the sight of the nation's leader.

Speeches were given extensively, detailing the plight of impoverished individuals globally, and general suffering of all, to rousing applause from the crowd.

Then more pictures were taken, and hands shook, as the nauseating self-congratulation continued well into the evening. It was scheduled to conclude at midnight, to avoid having some of more elderly members of parliament falling asleep in their seats, but when Alex glanced at his watch it was still an hour before he was officially off-duty.

He glanced over at his assignment, who had a glass of champagne in her hand, but was apparently managing to be more restrained than his previous experiences, standing by the stone balustrade, staring out over the Thames looking as bored as Alex felt.

It wasn't hard to see why the photographers were all over her like a rash, though. Even dressed in a formal dining gown, she managed to make herself stand out from the crowd by quite some distance. She was wearing a pale gold number, cut low to her stomach at the front, and without a back, it was quite the stunner, and had the photographers in raptures.

The security for the immediate area was tighter than most third world dictators required, and Alex couldn't do anything about any threats that fell outside the immediate zone. He glanced over at his mark, making sure she wasn't about to leap over the edge for a night time swim, before looking for one of those individuals who was handing out bottles of water.

Alex rested his arms on the stonework, watching the patrol boats whiz past quietly, out of sight and out of mind for the guests. He felt someone tap him on the arm, and he whirled around quickly, ready to fend off any questions as to who he was or what he was doing there.

He was surprised, then, to find himself face to face with the very individual he was supposed to be protecting.

"Who are you?" came the brazen question from the blonde haired girl, as she looked him up and down.

"Nobody special," Alex replied, aiming to be as unmemorable as possible. If he was too abrasive, it would stick in her mind, but he certainly wasn't about to be friendly.

"Well, you're the only other person here under 20, and I don't think you're a pop-star or an actor," she replied, staring keenly at his features.

"I'm the Shadow Treasurer's nephew, up from Sussex for the weekend. I'm interested in politics so he brought me along. I'm really excited to meet all these people who I've spent so much time studying. My name is Quentin," he said tersely.

Everything about that sentence was designed to put her off him, and he couldn't imagine anything she'd dislike more than politics, after living with it all her life.

He was so engrossed in trying to make himself invisible to her that he failed to notice their two person conversation, if that's what one could describe it as, was suddenly joined by a third party.

"Darling, there you are! Oh, and I see you've met Alex Rider. I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Rider. It seems Mr. Blunt wasn't able to resist despite his best assurances."

"Good evening Prime Minister," Alex said, nodding politely before attempting to slip away.

Once more he felt a hand on his arm, although this time it was a firm grip on his elbow.

"Don't you go anywhere," the blonde haired girl demanded, and Alex hardly felt able to defy the Prime Minister's daughter in front of her father.

"Why did you call him Alex?" she demanded, while the countries Prime Minister stared rather coldly at Alex. He knew the Prime Minister was not overly enamoured with the concept of personal security, but Alex hadn't thought his presence would be a problem.

"This is Alex Rider, sweetheart. He works for the government. I called him Alex because that is his name. I'm terribly sorry, but I was just coming to say we've got to stay for at least another forty minutes my sweet; it is after all, my party. Good evening once more, Mr. Rider,"

But his daughter didn't even utter a complaint as her father departed, instead she turned to Alex.

"You work for the government?" she asked incredulously, looking him up and down once more.

"Yes," Alex sighed, figuring that she wouldn't believe the lie.

"Aren't you, well, a bit young? What do you do for them? And why'd you lie to me? I'm the Prime Minister's daughter you know, you can't just go around lying to me because you feel like it,"

"I am so terribly sorry," Alex mimicked, putting on his best Eton bred accent.

She was still looking at him, but her expression had changed.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Your face looks familiar, I'm almost certain I've seen you somewhere!" she announced, and Alex winced.

"I work in the government buildings, I've been around your father, it's possible I guess," Alex replied as vaguely as he could manage.

"No, I really don't think that's it. I've seen you somewhere out before, somewhere unexpected," she replied, still studying him closely, "I certainly don't think I would remember you from anything to do with my father's position, although," she trailed off with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**A few people seemed interested in this story, so here's another chapter, only two days later! How much should you love me! A simple review would be a fine substitute however :)**

Alex was shocked out of his conversation induced stupor by shouts in his earpiece, and other various indistinguishable noises going off.

The sound of a car bomb exploding, however, was truly unique, to a trained ear like Alex's anyhow.

The cataclysmic wall of noise that assaults ones eardrums is unparalleled, and the plume of flame that appeared on Westminster Bridge spiked fifty feet into the air, ballooning at its peak before dissipating.

There was a stunned silence as everyone stared at the illuminated sky, before the screaming and the shouting began. Everyone milled around, unsure of what to do, unwilling to head towards the exit because it was the same direction as the explosion.

As soon as Alex had heard the chatter on the radio waves he'd moved. He'd secured his mark, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her low, providing as much cover as he could with his own body.

His Beretta was out of its holster, and he was moving, forcing the mark to run in a crouched position while his head whipped around, eyes flashing on any possible threats, pushing guests who got too close for his comfort out of the way without regard for status or fame.

He paused only to shoot the lock off a door down an alcove, and then kicked the ruined keyhole and the wooden door swung inwards. Pushing the mark ahead of him into the darkness, he checked that they were not being followed, before pushing the door shut once more.

"What the fuck was that!" came the high pitched voice in the darkness.

"Car bomb," Alex replied shortly, searching the room for a light switch.

He eventually located the switch only to find that he was being stared at once more.

"Who _are_ you?" she asked, her eyes widening when she registered he was holding a gun.

"Alex Rider," he replied, checking exits and entrances, before removing a silencer from his jacket pocket and screwing it onto the end of his Beretta.

"No, no, I mean _what_ are you?" she repeated, watching him apprehensively. "I mean, you say you work for the government, but you don't look much older than I am! And you have a gun!"

Alex sighed. They were going to be stuck here for a while, because regulations dictated that they weren't to move from their safe zone until the area had been locked down and secured. He figured he should probably tell her in any case. He didn't want to risk her opening her mouth to one of her friends because she didn't realise the gravity of the situation.

"Alright then," Alex said, taking a seat at the central table, which was lined with leather chairs, "we're going to be stuck here for a while, so we'll trade information."

The blonde girl took the seat opposite, still looking wary.

"My name is Alex Rider, and I'm seventeen years old," he began, doing his best to keep her mind from what had just occurred, or from panicking about her family. She was still in a state of shock, and her mind was all over the shot.

"I am a member of MI6, and I have been since I was 14. I'm a highly decorated agent, an honorary member of the SAS and I've taken part in operations in thirty different countries, over five continents. My father and my uncle were both employed by MI6, and all my family have been killed in the line of duty, except for my mother who was a nurse and was 'collateral damage' in an assassination attempt on my father."

"You...you're a seventeen year old spy!" she demanded, her eyes wide with shock.

"I find spy more of a James Bond concept. I am an operative, a patriot," Alex replied, thumbing his Beretta casually.

They sat there in silence as she processed the information.

"Do you mind?" she asked, looking pointedly at his gun, "it's making me nervous."

"My apologies. But now, tell me about yourself. I don't get much time out to keep myself up to date with the society pages," Alex smiled indulgently.

"But you know I am. Wait, were you here today to provide security just for me?" she asked, and Alex was pleasantly surprised. Maybe she wasn't the attractive halfwit the media suggested.

"Certainly," Alex responded, "I was assigned to watch out for you, provide bodyguard services if required. Take my word for it, it's not my favourite assignment, and you certainly don't make it easy for me,"

"So what, this isn't the first time?"

Alex was beginning to realise that she wasn't nearly as stupid as she was made out to be.

"No," Alex responded shortly.

"My eighteenth birthday," she laughed, remembering suddenly, "Sarah made a move on you at the bar, I remember now. She was cut up about you knocking her back for the rest of the night, still, I guess knocking her down a peg or two probably did her some good. Honestly though, I can't believe you were assigned to guard me, when else have you been there?"

A typical reaction after a shock; the victim is calm, lucid and makes light of the situation in the immediate aftermath. The honest response would only kick in sometimes an hour later.

"Pretty much whenever I'm in the country and you're going out. It's happened at least half a dozen times now. Your parents are both safe now," he added, pointing to his earpiece.

"Mother! Father!" she exclaimed, realization hitting her. "Are they injured, where are they!"

"Relax, they've been whisked away to a safe house, and they're more worried about you than themselves now. You're in more danger than they are; you are still in the vicinity of the blast."

"But I've got you, don't I?" she smiled, "the seventeen year old superspy who spends his time somewhere between a guardian angel and creepy stalker,"

Alex was glad she was able to be so relaxed, it made his job much easier, but he guessed growing up surrounded by armed guards and police escorts, this was a smaller blip on the radar than it would be to your average civilian.

"Tell me about yourself then," Alex said, trying to keep conversation flowing so she wouldn't have time to run the events over in her mind, and so he didn't have to listen to the mundane commands being barked out to the security agents and the replies of 'clear!' as they checked and double checked every nook and cranny.

"Well, my name is Sienna Atherton, I'm eighteen years old," she began, smiling broadly. Alex could tell he'd struck upon her favourite subject.

"Let's walk and talk," Alex suggested, "I don't particularly want to be given a full body search by some over-zealous security officer when they finally check this room."

"Don't we want to be found?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"Not if it means we have to go through a security screening to make sure we aren't potential threats. I have to hand over any potential weapons I was carrying too, and your average rank and file security agent doesn't know I exist. It's a bit hard to explain why a seventeen year old is carrying a 9mm and a combat knife."

"Where are we going then?" she asked.

"Head for the front. You're the Prime Minister's daughter, surely you of all people know your way around the Parliament buildings."

"Haven't a clue," she responded, as they made their way through the halls, lit only by the spotlights flashing every now and again from helicopters searchlights.

His charge couldn't resist the opportunity to continue to recount her life's narrative.

"You wanted to know my story? Well, here goes: My name is Sienna Atherton, and my father is Prime Minster. I attend St. Paul's Girls' School in Hammersmith, where I board for most of the year..."

The voice of Sienna Atherton echoed through the halls of the Houses of Parliament as they traipsed along in the virtual darkness.

"...I'm also the lead in the VIIIth, which is the annual play put on by those in year 13 by the drama society, we're doing _The love of the Nightingale_ this year, it's a feminist play from the late 1980's... Oh! We've arrived at the entrance, that was quick!"

"Speak for yourself," muttered Alex, as they stepped out onto the street.

"Have you contacted anybody to inform them that we're okay?" she asked, looking up and down the empty boulevard.

"Of course," Alex replied, pulling out his phone, "I was banking on them meeting us here,"

Quickly connecting the radio network, he tapped out his message quickly, while retreating back into the building.

He only had to wait seconds for a response.

"They're concerned about follow up attacks, so every car has to be swept and searched," he said, as they stood in the doorway of the parliament buildings, after Alex had picked the lock. "The entire city is in lockdown, once your father's car arrived they closed off the vicinity completely, no one gets in or out."

"So what now?" she asked, looking out the door.

"We've been instructed to wait for backup; they're going to send in special ops or something to extract us. I imagine that will mean at least a couple of hours wait," Alex sighed. He had suddenly remembered that it was a Sunday and he had school the next morning. That could be interesting.

"I don't want to hang around here for two hours!" his protection assignment wailed bitterly.

"It's not exactly my idea of a perfect Sunday either," Alex muttered, finding himself a seat in the grand entrance hall.

Sienna Atherton stood in the doorway, and Alex was to disinterested to bother informing her that she was making her a prime target for any potential snipers.

"Well, why don't we leave then?" she replied, looking out of the door.

"Because I'll get strung up by my balls, that why," Alex replied, frustration evident, unbuttoning his jacket, and removing his bow tie.

"What if I just leave? You can't keep me here," she responded, looking defiantly back at him.

Alex scowled.

"I am not your blasted baby sitter! This isn't some big joke, as much as you want it to be. I'm not here for your entertainment, to quote an absolutely shit song."

She sniffed, clearly unused to being talked to quite in that manner, and stepped outside.

"You're not serious," Alex said, standing up.

"I refuse to sit here for the next two hours doing nothing! These are my holidays, and I'm wasting them!"

"I don't fork out twenty thousand quid a semester to go to some rich kid school so I'm not even on holidays yet, so _some_ of us have fucking school tomorrow," Alex muttered, as his assignment strode out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**So some of you are becoming attached to Sienna Atherton, or not, as the case may be... Anyway, my suggestion is DON'T. She might make appearances throughout the story, and don't worry, there will be plenty of lusty OC's, but she is not the one. Anyway, please read and review!**

"So what are you proposing we do now then?" Alex enquired, as the stood in the chilly evening breeze. "We can't hail a cab, there's no one coming to get us, and I'd offer to break into a car and hotwire it but we'd be shot on sight if we were seen driving in the exclusion zone."

"We can walk somewhere," she announced, "come on then, unless you're going to leave me all by my lonesome."

"This is a horrible idea," Alex said, "we'll get pulled up by the National Guard and I'll spend the night in lockup for attempted kidnap. Can we at least not walk towards 10 Downing Street?" he implored her.

"No, I won't. Fine then, where else do you suggest we go?"

"Well I suggested nowhere, but you seem to have your heart set on moving for god knows what reason,"

"I won't sit around in those dark, depressing parliament buildings any longer, they are draining the heart and soul out of me," she huffed, standing on the sidewalk.

"At least at this rate you still have a heart and soul, it's not lying in pieces around Westminster," Alex replied, glancing up and down the street. "Alright, so if I organise a position change, will you stop bugging me?"

"You can do that? You've been able all along and you've been holding out on me?"

"Yes," Alex replied, grimacing, "but only because I don't like the alternative. However, I'm even less enamoured with it than the idea of spending two hours here with you. So I'm only agreeing if you'll agree to be quiet."

Alex really hated security detail. With a passion, one might say. Part of the hatred was born from the fact that it was simply so painfully uninteresting watching supposedly important people carry out their lives that he was almost reduced to tears.

Even though the bomb had only gone off half an hour earlier, Alex found himself struggling to care. No one had been killed or even injured, and already the chatter in his ear was saying it looked like an IRA attack, which from his (limited) experience were usually one off events with no follow up or timed detonations.

These factors, when combined with the fact that he had little desire to play nursemaid any longer, led him to agree to a change of locale. He called the head of security and gave a dubious spiel about how a van that was illegally parked was sitting lower over the rear axle and how the vehicle could possibly contain any amount of explosive potential.

Obviously, he incited near panic, as they desperately tried to work out what to do. Alex added that they were currently within the blast range, which drove the poor man to a virtual apoplectic fit. The suggestion, then, that Alex move locations was seen as the only option.

They were in Westminister after midnight, and there were no cars in the vicinity. Alex, however, located an alley, and without a word, began to walk towards it. He knew he was probably going to get into deep trouble for this stunt, but there was an overarching aim also; he was hoping that he would never be asked to do security detail ever again.

Sienna Atherton cried out, and clumsily chased Alex in her heels.

"Where are we going?" she demanded.

"You wanted to leave, we're leaving. I'm going to find us a car," Alex informed her shortly.

"I don't like this," she complained, and Alex rounded on her.

"I'm not doing this for my benefit, I'm perfectly happy to wait until our extraction team arrives," Alex spat.

"No, no, I want to go home," Sienna Atherton moaned, and Alex shook his head. He would never get used to how grown up he felt, how grown up he had become.

A small mercy had been that given the event was being held in Westminster, the surrounding buildings were government or business locales, meaning that the exclusion zone started at the boundary of the first residential building, almost half a mile away. All other businesses, shops and offices had been cleared the day before, and no one without a permit could get in or out.

This made the event infinitely easier to provide security for, however, in their present situation, it made locating a vehicle infinitely more challenging.

Alex, naturally, had scanned the map in the dossier on his way in, and had noted important locations to be aware of. He was certain that he had spotted an underground car park, and was making his way towards where he thought it was located.

In all honesty, there was no need for a vehicle. In fact, if he was truly concerned about the PM's daughter's safety, he would suggest they progressed on foot, utilizing alleys and breaking into buildings where necessary to keep them out of sightlines and under cover.

But he wasn't that concerned with anything other than getting home, and leaving Sienna Atherton behind forever.

He spied the underground car park he'd seen on the map, and stopped in the dark alley.

"Well this is fabulous, isn't it?" Sienna Atherton said, rattling the bars of the sliding gate, "how are you proposing we get it?"

"Stand back, and don't touch anything metal," warned Alex, as he unstrapped his knife from his leg.

He approached the security card reader, ignoring the gate completely. Using the edge of the blade, he prised the button cover off, followed by the input register. Once the circuit board was exposed, his reattached his knife to his leg, and set about fiddling with the intricate device.

Suddenly there was a bang, and Alex swore, and shook his electrocuted hand furiously as an alarm started wailing shrilly.

"Oh well done," was the contribution he received from his mark, and Alex, who had been about to offer his jacket to the girl who was standing there rubbing her arms in the cold night air, thought better of it.

Instead, he grabbed the gate, and with considerable effort, managed to haul it open along its rollers.

"How'd you manage that?" asked a surprised Sienna Atherton.

"Short circuited the entire system. Didn't mean to, but hopefully means the CCTV will be off as well. Most businesses have security systems that a well equipped 12 year old could defeat with no trouble at all. They run their entire system on the single power line, for one," panted Alex.

"I didn't understand anything that just came out of your mouth."

"Just start looking for a car to use. Preferably something from before 1986 if you can find it," Alex instructed, looking around.

"Why can't we take a new car?" she whined, still rubbing her arms.

"Because cars of that vintage generally have a carburetted engine and a single ignition coil and distributor, and therefore can be started from the engine bay, which makes it a hell of a lot easier, that's why."

Sienna Atherton was looking like she hadn't quite been able to picture what she was letting herself in for, and Alex managed to muster up some pity for her. She hadn't asked for this. He removed his jacket and held it out to her.

"Keep warm, I don't know how long this could take. There's another floor, I'll check this one, you take that one. Remember, we're looking for an older car."

"Can't I stay with you?" she asked, and Alex realised that she was scared. It was beginning to hit her just what had happened, and he had to remind himself that she wasn't built for this. She was a glorified civilian who was being thrust into what she thought was a dangerous situation where she was completely out of her depth. Her response was to be petty and childish, and cling to the nearest source of security, which in this case was Alex.

"Fine, you can help me search, there are only about ten cars that have been left here anyway, and the ones down the end look like company cars."

Naturally though, this was an inner city business car park. It was all late 2000 model German coupes with modern advanced security systems that Alex had neither the tools nor time to break in to.

In the end, the best he could do was a Mercedes C320 from about the turn of the millennium, which still posed considerable difficulties.

He cared little about the alarm, and there was no need for subtlety, so he simply removed his knife and dug it under the keyhole. He wrenched the entire lock off the door, and then it was a simple case of using the point of the knife to unhitch the latch and the door swung open.

Of course the alarm proceeded to assault his eardrums, but after levering the steering column open and cutting the wiring out, the only noise he still had to contend with was the softer alarm that echoed around the car park.

Alex quickly located the two wires that were striped, red and black, and used his knife to strip an inch off both of them. Being careful not to let them short circuit by touching them against any other components, he twisted them together. Looking in the glove box, he found a window cleaning cloth, which he shredded, and tied around the wires to protect the connection, leaving himself the tiniest space to work with.

Next, he took the ignition wire, stripped it by half an inch, and positioned it over the intertwined wires. Placing his hand on the accelerator pedal from his kneeling position on the edge of the footwell, he touched the wires together while simultaneously revving the engine.

The Mercedes C320 spluttered to life, and Alex pumped the accelerator to get the engine running.

"How did you do that?" came the voice from behind the car.

"Magic. Now get in before I leave you here," Alex instructed.

He hopped into the driver's seat and waited for his passenger to join him, before reversing out of the space. Alex was officially under the age limit to have his full licence, but MI6 had presented it to him on his 16th birthday. His licence had an exemption stamp on it, allowing him free rein to drive where, when and what he pleased.

"Where to now?" enquired Sienna Atherton, while conspicuously checking her hair in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm going to call and warn them that we're coming. I wouldn't want to get you shot by police sniper because they think we're carrying a bomb.

Alex removed his phone from the pocket of his suit pants, which were now ruined, and keyed in the access code. He then punched out a short message to his operational supervisor for this assignment, conducted mainly in code.

"What are we waiting for?" the blonde girl asked.

"Confirmation."

Alex couldn't quite decide what to make of Sienna Atherton. One minute she was scared, the next she was demanding answers. He supposed everyone reacted to shock differently, and didn't really retain the capacity to act like themselves.

The response he received was less than satisfactory from Alex's point of view. He was told on no uncertain terms to remain in his current location and wait for backup to arrive, and they would be extracted with the remaining guests. No risks were to be taken.

Alex simply replied with a simple message.

**Black Mercedes – plate: LA51ABC. Birdcage Exit. 2 minutes.**

Then he turned to his passenger, who was watching him type out the quick message.

"You better put your seatbelt on."

"Why? It's not like we're likely to run into any other cars," she replied.

"If I get shot and we crash, you'll go through the windscreen," Alex said, as he pulled out into the laneway.

"Who the hell is going to shoot you now?" she demanded in a high pitched voice.

"My operational supervisor, if someone lets him near anything with a trigger," Alex answered.

**I hope you all appreciate the idea of Alex actually being good at what he does, rather than outrageously lucky. I'll never know how Anthony Horowitz managed to sustain the series for as long as he did with a character that was essentially a slightly better informed, better equipped version of your average kid.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Another shortish chapter, but I hope you appreciate finding out about Alex between Scorpia Rising and the present day. As always, please read and review!**

The birdcage checkpoint occurred Birdcage Walk met Queen Anne's Gate. North into Green Park was barricaded off by three metre high fencing, as it had been to the south, almost to Lambeth Road. It had been a massive operation, and Alex wondered how the bomb had managed to make it across the river at all, given that the checkpoint was on the other side.

If he was to guess, he would have said it was an inside job, given how tight the controls had been. Nobody could have simply driven in, but someone very well could have posed as an arriving dignitary and with the right identification, could have made it through. The only puzzle was the delayed detonation, given that everyone of importance was out of range at the time the bomb went off.

Alex was given no more time to ponder this, as he arrived at the checkpoint. He could see Sienna Atherton cringe slightly further into her seat as they drew closer. The whole affair was extremely embarrassing for the security services, and particularly MI5, so the big guns had been called in.

Manning the checkpoint were the members of the police force who had been there before, but they were all looking slightly overawed as they drew closer, and well they might. The National Counter-Terrorism Security Office had sent a unit to each checkpoint, to liaison with the Counter Terrorism Command personnel that had already arrived, and had brought the Chemical, Biological, Radiological and Nuclear team, or CBRN, with them.

The CBRN members, decked out in white and orange hazmat gear, combined with the black counter-terrorism units and the empty streets, gave the whole situation a very eerie feel.

Alex pulled to a halt fifty yards from the checkpoint.

"What are you doing?" his passenger asked.

"This is serious. They've brought in the national terrorism unit, and these guys are paranoid. Like shoot you if you look at them funny kind of paranoid. We need to identify that we're aren't a threat, and exactly what we're doing."

"Surely you can just call them, or something."

"Shut up, and get out of the car. Slowly. Then, don't say a word. If they think we're communicating or planning, all the blonde hair and cleavage in the world won't save you from being turned into Swiss cheese. Lose the jacket as well, they're terrified of suicide bombers. Al-Qaeda has a lot to answer for."

Alex opened his door slowly, presenting his hands over the top. He knew he would immediately be seen as the threat, so he had to tread more carefully. Not too many blondes who wore low cut dresses were terrorists or bombers, despite what he'd just said.

As smoothly as he could manage, his arms still raised, he moved out from behind the door and began to walk towards the checkpoint. He stopped when they covered half the distance, tracking the blonde's shaky progress alongside his own.

"_Stop!" _came the instruction from some sort of speaker or megaphone. _"Identify yourself and your intention!"_

Alex, despite the situation, was in no hurry to identify himself to a street full of officer plods from the Westminster constabulary as an MI6 agent, so he compromised.

"A4a-b5J-Z90-a4Z. Transport mark no.3 to safety," he said loudly and clearly. The code was his database identification code, and he hoped there would be someone senior enough back there to actually recognize what he'd just told them. If nothing else, he was hoping they would punch it into the database and get a notification that to access his file they needed clearance several times higher than their pay grade.

It took several minutes for anything to happen, and Alex stood completely still, as his mark shuffled uncomfortably on her feet.

"A4a-b5J-Z90-a4Z and mark no.3, proceed slowly through the checkpoint on my command."

Alex turned, as Sienna Atherton let out a heavy sigh. He had left the engine running, because he knew that despite the immediate assumption that any bomb was a kill-switch detonator that would explode once the engine was stopped, he couldn't afford to have to re-jack the car.

They proceeded to the vehicle, and slid into their seats without a word. Alex released the handbrake, and the car rolled forward slowly.

As he did so, all but a few of the officers on the checkpoint moved to the side, around the back of the makeshift office and headquarters that they had set up for the event.

"What's going on?" his passenger asked, sounding puzzled.

"None of them have the clearance to be informed about me, and MI6 spend a lot of time and money making sure my face is recognised by as few people as possible."

"Do I have clearance?" asked the surprised blonde.

"They'll make you sign an amended Official Secrets Act I imagine, one that specially refers to me. MI6 don't mince words. You'll have it shoved down your throat."

"Put your hands on the dashboard, just as a precaution. Make sure they are visible," he instructed his charge.

Alex cruised through the checkpoint slowly, keeping his own hands at the top of the wheel, and he was watched intently through the window as he passed. The two men in combat uniform he recognised, and the third, who was wearing a biohazard suit, Alex was fairly sure he knew also, simply from a rough estimation of height and weight.

He knew the car was being scanned by the infrared,

Other than them, the road was deserted, and Alex waited until they were a hundred yards further down the road before he sped up again.

"Why didn't they check us for bombs or anything? I thought you said they were completely paranoid?" Sienna Atherton asked, and once again Alex was struck by how varied her emotional state was. Sometimes she was extremely observant, other times Alex wanted to throttle her to make her stop talking.

"They did check us. That grey wall runner on the rail, between two power poles..."

"Which wall?"

Not that observant then.

"I deliberately stopped directly between it. It is US Transport Security Administration x-ray technology that they developed to check for drugs, weapons and bombs in cars entering airports. It's called a 'RVACIS' and it is most commonly used for checking semi-trailers at borders for illegal imports. However, the US army has developed a version for detecting IEDs in Iraq and Afghanistan."

"How did someone get a bomb in this evening then?" Sienna Atherton asked, and Alex could tell she was relaxing. They'd cleared the exclusion zone, and at the next intersection Alex could even see another car, travelling through the south London streets in the early hours of the morning.

He considered the poignant question for a second before replying.

"It's a good question. Again, I'd be guessing, but I say either the relevant vehicle arrived early, or the security agencies went the economical route and only hired machines to scan employee, security and media cars. Each of those setups costs nearly two million pounds."

"So what are we doing now?" enquired Sienna Atherton.

Alex was momentarily flummoxed, and drove in silence for a moment.

The awkward pause was punctured by the vibration of Alex's phone in his pocket, and he pulled it out and entered the key code to field the call. There was none of this single button lock bypass with his phone.

"Blunt," Alex said emotionlessly.

"Agent Rider. I've just received a report on your conduct today. You are expected to report to Liverpool Street at the conclusion of your other commitments tomorrow for a debrief."

Alex winced. That wasn't promising.

"I have my primary objective safe, what are your instructions?"

"Take her to your safe place, since you've broken all established protocols already."

"But sir!"

"No argument Rider. She will be collected from your care by her parents. They have asked to do so personally. Make sure you are presentable when that occurs."

Then with a click, the phone line went dead. Alex swore, and rammed the phone back into his pocket. Disobeying the chief of regional security indirectly was one thing, but the Head of Special Operations at MI6 was quite another. The suggestion was abhorrent though.

"What's going on?"

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, as he swung south toward Kensington.

"Apparently, you're going to be my house guest so your parents don't have to travel to some military base to collect you," Alex replied angrily.

"What's wrong with that?"

"I can count the number of people who have been into my current house on one hand. My housekeeper, my best friend, and the three separate security specialists that I hired to do each layer of my security setup."

"Why would you need three people who do the same job?" she asked, playing with the ends of her blonde hair.

"To ensure no individual except me is aware of every element," Alex replied, "next question?"

"Alright, so where do you live?"

"Normally if I was going to do this, I'd blindfold you, drive you around to disorientate you, and then only release you once you were in the underground bunker, but I doubt your parents will hold up on their end once they got you back again."

"Aren't you just a little paranoid?"

"My paranoia saved my housekeepers life. Didn't stop her running back to Washington, but it ensured her return wasn't made in a coffin. I live in Knightsbridge now, although you won't find my address anywhere in public records, the house officially doesn't exist, and my public file still has me living in my uncles home in Chelsea."

"You used to live there?"

"What is this, twenty questions?"

"You asked me what my next question was, didn't you?"

"Yes, originally it was my uncle's house, which I shared with him and my housekeeper. But he died when I was 14 years old trying to complete the same mission I was later given as my first ever assignment. My housekeeper, Jack Starbright, she lived with me up until nearly my 16th birthday, until someone kidnapped her brother in the United States."

"Why would someone do something like that?"

"To get to me. They had personal details and everything, MI6 had done a less than exemplary job of hiding my whereabouts, so my housekeeper was easy enough to find. Fortunately she'd been assigned a guard at this point, so with none of my family remaining to target, they went for the next best thing."

He heard an audible intake of breath.

"Who are they?"

"A particularly unlovable organization that used to be known as SCORPIA. It's an acronym, which always made them slightly less intimidating in my eyes. Especially since it doesn't actually work as an acronym."

"So what did you do?" she asked, as Alex pulled on to Brompton Road, passing the Knightsbridge tube station.

"Well, they demanded I hand myself over if we wanted Tom Starbright back alive, so I went to Venice, extracted Tom Starbright, and killed all seven of their new members they'd elected since we routed them last time, with a little assistance from the SAS."

"Oh my god."

"Don't worry; I doubt they'll be making a grand come-back. We froze their assets throughout Italy and Spain, and lo-and-behold, a dozen companies went under. If you hear companies named as the cause of the central European financial crisis, 50/50 chance of it being because they were attached to Scorpia."

A sentence that Alex had thought would be reassuring made his charge look very white, and clench the dashboard tightly.

He didn't have time to ponder this strange reaction, however, as he pulled the car into Onslow Gardens, and navigated his way into the only gated residence in the area, that had been specially designed for his needs.

Home sweet home.

**Alright, I'm not sure I like the idea of Sienna going back to Alex's house, but it will be good to see him out of his comfort zone. I also hope you noticed his slight lack of awareness about Sienna's reaction to his history; it's because of this that he is able to act like he does. He doesn't think of it as abnormal. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Here is another chapter, some more of Alex and Sienna interacting. I'm hoping to give some insight into what makes Alex tick, what makes my Alex different from Anthony Horowitz's. Anyway, read, enjoy and please review!**

Alex Rider's house was a local point of interest. The women of the neighbourhood speculated that there was an elderly guardian that lived behind those gates, who was tended to by the teenage boy who came and went as he pleased.

Certainly, there was no debating the wealth of whoever owned the property. No other house had a gated front yard in the area; in fact, most houses didn't even have a front yard.

The house had used to be one of four, located at the end of a "mews" as they were known in inner-London, but were simply dead-end lanes which were cobbled.

When Alex had come upon the place, it had been in transition. The two houses on either side of the entrance were being knocked down, to build new residences which fronted onto the park that lay in the middle of the square. The third and fourth houses were being sold off to fund the expansion.

Alex, who had been looking for a new residence ever since the incident with Tom Starbright, which had led his sister who was also Alex's housekeeper, to return to Washington. Alex had known he couldn't stay in his current locale, but he needed to stay in London, and he liked the area. The opportunity had been too good to pass up.

At the behest of MI6, the council refused plans to place windows overlooking the alley entrance, which meant that after three metre high gate had been installed, Alex's privacy and security was guaranteed.

The two remaining houses were purchased for a tidy sum, half of which Alex had funded with the sale of his Chelsea home. MI6 had not been keen to have Alex sell his first house, claiming they were unsure if they had managed to eradicate or even discover the classified information hidden there completely.

Alex had sold it anyway. There were a few too many painful memories for him to want to keep it.

His new house had been constructed especially, and it wasn't just the security, either. The walls, for instance, were three times thicker than average and the roof was reinforced with double trussing. Neither was made from traditional building materials.

Alex had insisted in creating his own, personalized security system, much to the annoyance of his MI6 handlers. They never liked not knowing how to get to their agents, but Alex had stood firm. His house would be accessible by him alone.

He pulled the Mercedes to a halt, and keyed in the access code to his phone. His entire security system was controlled from his phone, a device he had the utmost faith in. It had, after all, been given to him by Smithers.

The gates swung open, and gravel crunched under the tires as the C320 pulled slowly into the laneway.

"So this is your house," Sienna Atherton said, peering up through the pitch black of the early morning to look at the two story dwelling.

"This is my house," Alex confirmed slowly, finally killing the engine.

They both opened their doors, although Alex was forced to unhook the latch on the driver's side door by hand given that he ruined the lock mechanism breaking into it.

"What is going to happen to the car?" the Prime Minister's daughter enquired, glancing back at the vehicle that had transported them there.

"I imagine MI6 will seize it, crush into a small cube, and then it will eventually be used as a dog food can or whatever they recycle them into these days," Alex replied.

"What about the owner?"

"I'm sure your concern is admirable, however, I wouldn't worry. In my experience, civilians are offered something twice the value of what they lost in exchange for their silence. You never know, his decade of suffering without parking sensors and sat-nav might be over because of our generosity in pinching his car. Now come on, get inside before I realise that leaving you out here is far preferable."

"You really aren't very nice to me," she muttered, as she strode past him, through his front door.

The interior of Alex's house was modern, all wooden floors and glass, belying the ivy covered stonework of the exterior. Of course, he had been informed that this was fashionable, but he had taken the woman's word for it.

It suddenly dawned on Alex that he had the Prime Minister's only daughter in his house, and he was expected to entertain her until her father and mother arrive.

She was standing in his hallway, looking expectantly at him, and he suddenly wished he was back in Morocco and had five people shooting at him again. Anything was going to be easier than however long they were going to make him suffer for.

"Would... would you like a drink?" Alex enquired tentatively. This was his house, why was he nervous suddenly? He never like social interaction, there were no definable rules, no prep work to be done, no scouting of locations. It just happened, and everything was down to interpretation.

"Did I just hear Alex Rider stutter?" asked a shocked Sienna Atherton.

"Would you like something to eat or drink?" asked Alex, more clearly.

Suppressing a cheeky smile, his charge nodded, and Alex gestured through to his kitchen, trying to keep a sneer from his features. So he didn't deal so well with people when he had no ulterior motive or angle of attack. Big deal. He had more important things to do than learning the art of genuine conversation. He was more interested in being able to bluff his way through small talk and discerning relevant clues. Or so he told himself.

Alex's kitchen was a similarly lavish affair, not that his house guest was used to anything else, he assumed. Sienna Atherton perched herself on a stool by the centre island bench, and tapped her heels against the wooden floor in a most irritating manner.

"What would you like to drink?" Alex asked, holding the fridge door open to display his range, which was not wonderful. Juices, energy shakes and cold water were about the extent of his beverage selection.

"Have you got anything a little stronger?" the blonde enquired, coyly twirling a strand of hair.

"I don't drink alcohol," Alex replied, "neither do I smoke or take drugs. MI6 contract clause stipulates that I submit to all forms of testing during my bi-monthly physicals. I like to keep my body in absolute peak condition."

"You don't drink, you don't smoke, do you go out? Like with your friends?"

"Not really. I mean, my best friend knows what I do, but that's it. No one else who I don't work with or against knows who or what I am. I don't find I have much time for 'going out' and that kind of thing."

"That must be really boring. I mean, don't you won't to go out and spend time with girls and stuff?"

"Unfortunately I don't get much opportunity to update my Facebook or gift my followers with another tweet to ponder, I'm usually too busy serving my country," Alex retorted, sipping his iced water calmly.

Alex had little intention of directly answering her question.

"So what do you want to do with your life then?" she asked, taking the glass of water that he offered, "apart from being a super-spy, obviously."

Alex took a mouthful of water as he considered this question.

"I'm not really sure. I haven't done much planning for the future, what with the life expectancy for active MI6 operatives in the field being what it is and all."

"You really haven't thought about whether this is what you want to do with your life?"

Alex leaned against the bench, and asked a question of his own for a change.

"What makes you the way you are?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's the same question you asked, in essence. How come you are a vapid, airheaded princess one minute, and an insightful, probing, inquisitive individual the next?" Alex said, rephrasing his question more bluntly.

"You think I'm a vapid airhead?"

"I don't know what to think, that's exactly it. It's like there's a smart, level-headed person inside you trying to break through the outer layer of superficial rubbish."

"What are you, a psychiatrist?"

"I did a course in psycho-analysis of suspects and victims. Teaches you to read people."

"Can we talk about something else? Like, have you got any clothes I could borrow? Because as much as I love this gown, I think I've ruined the hem."

Alex just shook his head, and gestured for her to follow him upstairs.

**Hope you liked a bit more background and information about Alex, onto the next chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Do you think it's realistic for Alex to be relatively wealthy? I mean SAS soldiers are on 100k a year, and Alex is far superior to them, plus he has his fathers and his uncles inheritance... And MI6 are desperate to keep him. I'd be very interested to know how much secret service members are paid, or at least how much you think they should be paid, anyway.**

A quick shower, and a plain grey t-shirt and blue zip down tracksuit pants later, his charge reappeared at the top of the stairs, padding down barefoot with her dress over her arm, and heels in her hands.

Alex had removed himself to his lounge room, where his massive 70 inch Sony Bravia television dominated the room.

"So you're not all business then," commented Sienna Atherton, as she curled herself up into one of the seats.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you obviously like watching movies or something. That's bigger than my television at home, and I go to private boarding school."

"So you keep reminding me."

"How do you get all this money, anyway? I mean, surely the government isn't paying you that much?"

"I am the seventh highest paid employee in the intelligence services behind the head of MI6 and the deputy and five senior agents, if you really want to know. I am a 'valued team member' I think they described it as."

"So that's how you got so much money, by being a valued team member? What on earth does that even mean?"

"No, I told them if they didn't pay me properly, I'd jump ship to the CIA. They were offering me three times MI6's first contract offer."

"Why didn't you go?"

"As I said, I like to think of myself as a patriot. I fight for my country, like any regular soldier, I'm just much better at it than your average Private Ryan. Do you have any preferences as to what we watch?" Alex asked, firmly changing the subject. He didn't like discussing money, it made him uncomfortable.

This discomfort wasn't due to the social taboo either, but more to do with the power of money. Alex disliked the concept of this all powerful force that drove the globe so completely. The thought of unregulated influence of that stature made him slightly nervous.

"What have you got on offer?" she asked, as Alex picked up the remote.

"I have every Chelsea game for the last six months recorded on my hard drive recorder. Other than that, it's your pick of the satellite channels."

"So you like football then?"

"Season ticket holder. I go to every home game that I'm in London for. Honestly though, you've got more questions than a recently awoken coma patient."

Sienna Atherton ignored the jibe, instead she snatched the remote control from his grasp, and turned on his television.

Alex had been hoping that the selection of program would be an amicable agreement between the two of them. After thirty seconds of "Sex and the City" he gave up all hope and just prayed for his nightmare to be over.

The call didn't come in until four in the morning, and Alex had retreated to his study and left his charge in front of the television.

About five minutes into the awful program she had selected, she had started complaining about her phone, as if she'd only just realised she'd didn't have it. Her bag had been collateral damage in Alex's extraction of her, but it didn't stop her moaning bitterly about it.

The message he received was simple, and less than twenty minutes later, Alex could see on the feed from his external security cameras that there was a black convoy of three cars parked outside.

It was with great reluctance that Alex keyed in the code to his front gate. Only have a single visitor to his house for the entire year was one too many, in his opinion, let alone three vehicles worth. After the gate had slid completely back, the central vehicle in the convoy turned into his driveway, leaving the other two to flank the entrance, in some ridiculous security guard posturing exhibition. Honestly, could they be begging for any more attention?

The car pulled to a halt behind the elderly Mercedes that was still stuck in the middle of Alex's driveway, and the front doors opened as the driver and passenger stepped out into his gravel driveway, and held the back doors open for the vehicles remaining occupants.

Alex, who by now was dressed in a pair of sports tracksuit pants and a plain white t-shirt, padded past the lounge where the television was still blaring, to open the front door.

Alex had to admit, the sight of the nations Prime Minister and his wife climbing the front stairs of his home was a little disconcerting. They in turn were flanked by the National Securities Advisor, or whatever bogus role had been fabricated for that man this week, and a personal security operative, who followed the country's most powerful man everywhere he went during his working day.

The National Securities Advisor, Mr. Jonathon Matthews-Prosser, was not Alex's favourite person in the world. It might have had something to do with Alex informing the man that he would ram the proposal that the man had suggested for the allocation of agents logged time somewhere decidedly uncomfortable. He already detested being stuck doing security enough as it was, however he had to admit that a little more tact might have been in order.

Mr. Matthews-Prosser was positively steaming from the ears as he approached, and Alex figured a little good-will probably would have helped. However, in his defence, it wasn't Alex's fault the man was a blithering idiot who was more paranoid than the lovechild of Joseph Stalin and Howard Hughes.

"Agent Rider..." he breathed from behind the Prime Minister, who was standing there observing Alex in a puzzled manner from the top step of his short staircase. "You have broken more regulations..."

"Agent Rider!" interrupted David Atherton, "I would like to see my daughter, if you don't mind!"

"Certainly Prime Minister," Alex replied, gesturing through his front door, "right this way."

David Atherton was followed quickly across the threshold by his wife, Samantha Atherton, and the security guard. Alex went to follow, but he found a hand on his shoulder.

"Agent Rider, what happened tonight...I don't know who you think you are..." spluttered Jonathon Matthews-Prosser, but Alex pushed his arm away none to gently, and the man stumbled backwards.

"I am not one of your bit-part goons, if you give me a job, I do it my way. Now, unless you want me to expel you forcibly from my property I suggest you wait out here. And for god sake, don't touch anything. I can't remember what still has a current running through it and what doesn't," Alex said, as he continued through the doorway, before turning back.

"Oh, and if your security ape who followed in Mr. and Mrs PM into my house had any electrical equipment on him, I hope you're not expecting it to work on the way out? I may have turned on my electro-magnetic pulse plate underneath my doormat as he entered. Don't worry, as long as he wasn't trying to record anything, it'll be fine. Now why don't you wait in the car? You can use the stereo while you wait, I'm sure," smiled Alex in the sweetest manner he could muster.

The door shut with a thud in the face of one of the most influential men in the country.

He wasn't worried though, he knew Alan Blunt found him more of an insufferable fool than Alex did.

"Oh darling!"

The voice of Samantha Atherton as she was reunited with her only daughter made Alex retch. Well at least pretend to, anyway. The security guard had looked askance at him for this, but Alex didn't care; at least he wasn't being paid to be a private lap-dog.

The blonde girl had been curled up on his couch, sleeping soundly until her mother had charged in and roused her. She

Sienna Atherton had the decency to sound slightly embarrassed by all the fawning attention, and as she hugged her father in the doorway to his lounge room, where some woman with a head shaped like a horse was still filling his television screen, she locked eyes with Alex.

"Alex was the real hero today," she announced, as she moved towards him, arms outstretched.

Alex almost went into lockdown. This wasn't part of the arrangement. This was an emotional moment, and by god, was it awkward. He patted her gently on the back, trying to avoid the stares of her parents. What was the protocol for this? He adopted a serious face, not wanting to give any sense that he possibly could have been enjoying it. She was a hot blonde, after all. It was a bit hard not to enjoy it slightly.

The entire pick-up had taken all of five minutes, and as he stood there and had both his cheeks kissed after being released from her grasp, he concluded that it would be churlish to ask for his clothing back.

"I'll call you," were the ominous parting words as she was escorted down his hallway by her parents, the security guard blocking his view of the family, as if he half expected Alex to launch a vicious attack while their backs were turned. It was fortunate however, because it meant there was no chance of Sienna seeing Alex roll his eyes skyward.

**The last relatively mundane chapter (I hope). I apologise if there hasn't been enough explosions or gunfights, or real story progression, but we're building towards it. Next chapter will contain most of the details of Alex's major assignment, but I'm going to have him do a couple of different things before I ship him out to Italy. Anyway, if you enjoyed it, or have any thoughts at all, please leave me a review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**First off, a few excuses. I have literally been snowed under with assignments and school work, and then I literally went to the snow! A week and a half of skiing was great, but now I'm back, and writing again. Hope you enjoy it, and as always, please read and review.**

Normal people, when they wanted to wake up at a particular time, utilized an object known as an 'alarm'. These devices could be set to produce noise at a selected time, to wake the owner from their slumber, and ensure they were not late to a prior commitment.

No one ever accused Alex of being normal. Partially because he spent very little time with too few people to be actually accused of anything, but mostly because it was tacitly untrue.

He woke up at 6.30 AM, just two hours after he'd gone to bed. This wasn't unusual. In fact, it was the norm. Part of SAS training was teaching the body to perform optimally on little or no sleep when it was required. Alex just took it the extra step; he never slept more than two hours.

He had asked his MI6 physician about his sleep patterns, querying whether or not it was dangerous, so the man had taken a blood sample and run some tests. The conclusion had been that his genetic make-up allowed him to function to the same standard as if he'd had eight hours on only two.

The man had used the word 'freak of nature', but Alex had simply shrugged. The difference between having 22 hours and 12 hours in a day was a considerable amount of work and gave him time to take a load off, and relax a little. When no one was looking, of course.

And he couldn't deny, nothing else in his life was normal.

* * *

><p>Alex Rider's fitness regime in the mornings was both intense and lengthy. It began with a meal of carbohydrates, involving fruits and wheats, and finished with a large protein shake. In between, there was an hour made up of 60 minutes of cardiovascular work and 40 minutes of weights and bodyweight work. It was his routine, and he stuck to it every morning.<p>

Then it was into the shower, pack his bag, and leave himself enough time to get to school without driving. Because like he had done ever since he could remember, Alex rode his bike to school.

The morning air was chilly, and he rubbed his arms gently as he walked down his front steps. His keys were in his bag, which took him a second to locate, but once he had, he clicked the remote on the keychain, and the garage door opened.

Inside was his pride and joy. Whenever he described it as such (which had been once), everyone (Tom) assumed he meant the car. Indeed, he was in ownership of a black Mercedes-Benz CL65 AMG, which MI6 had specially selected for him. Tom had asked why he didn't drive a Ferrari or something similar if he had the money, but there were definite rules regarding vehicles that could be seen entering and exiting Royal and General on Liverpool Street. Nothing that would draw undue attention was permitted.

While Alex loved speed, and the sensation of the world being a blur as he streaked past, he far preferred it on two wheels as opposed to four. While his contract explicitly forbade him from riding a motorbike in his personal time, bicycles were not mentioned.

Alex had bought a new bicycle for himself as a 17th birthday present, and was he proud of it. It was a 2010 Pinarello Prince road bike, in white, red and black, with a carbon frame and all the trimmings. Unbeknown to his fellow students, the bike that sat locked up in the sheds during the day was probably worth as much as any of the students vehicles in the car park.

MI6 had expressed considerable concern about Alex riding his bike to and from Brookland, slightly more than a mile away. If he was travelling at a constant speed, such as when he rode in on the weekend occasionally, it took about five minutes. In the London early morning traffic, it took closer to fifteen.

MI6 had lost out on the cycling argument, however. He'd threatened to bring a lawyer to go over his contract to see if there stipulations about riding bikes, because he knew there weren't. He would certainly be getting someone to go over his next contract, however. Who knew what clauses they would try to work into it if left unchecked?

Alex didn't mind the traffic. To him, it was all part of the challenge, trying to get from A to B as quickly as possible, without getting run over. If he annoyed a few early morning commuters, so be it.

* * *

><p>The process of exiting his house took five minutes, as it always did, but it was now so routine that he did it almost without thinking. He could remember when he'd first got it and he'd spent a whole day memorising every single element of the setup, and then destroying all documentation of its existence. That had involved an incinerator that he'd purchased which he then taken to the scrap yard, and personally watched being crushed into a small metal cube, which he'd then bought, and had melted down in turn.<p>

Paranoia about personal security? There was no such thing.

He slipped into his bike shoes, which stayed attached to the clips on his pedals, and adjusted his sportsbag strap across his shoulders. His final port of call was to strap on his "Met Ultimalite" helmet, the name meaning nothing to him. All he knew was that it was a mean shade of matte black, and so light that it would blow away in the lightest breeze.

Alex stamped on the pedals, his thighs straining and stretching his bike shorts as he flew down the centre line marking, ignoring the blaring horns as he raced across an intersection and south towards Brooklands. The roads were insanely crowded, as they were every day, and he made far better progress on his bike than he ever would in a car. Pulling out across the oncoming lane, weaving between stationary cars, he approached the final intersection before the school, and he saw his path was about to be blocked by a bus as it pulled out from a stop. Instinctively he bunny-hopped his road bike onto the pavement, and whizzed around a street vendor to rejoin the fracas of London's early morning traffic.

He was surrounded by other students as he cruised through the school gates, his helmet hanging from his handlebars.

"Rider! No riding your bike inside the school grounds! I've told you a thousand times!"

Mr. Redford, his biology teacher shouted at him as he wheeled past him. School on a Monday morning; it was a strange place for Alex to imagine, let alone attend.

* * *

><p>Alex didn't have to be at Brookland, in fact, according to MI6, Alex didn't have to be in school at all. School was a waste of their valuable assets time, as far as they were concerned. Ms. Jones however had insisted that Alex received an education, and he had agreed. Intelligence of all forms was required to do what he did, and while his Spanish class was a bit of a waste of time given that he spoke it better than the woman who taught it, biology he found surprisingly useful. So Alex Rider attended school five days a week whenever possible, and it was considered very unfortunate that he had to travel away for up to a fortnight or even a month at a time to receive treatment for his mystery ailment.<p>

This news about the mystery ailment had been 'accidentally' let slip by Tom, at Alex's request. He knew Tom was excited about the prospect of assisting an operation or simply helping keep Alex safe, and he was eternally grateful for that. Alex didn't have many friends, in fact, no one aside from Tom really, and Tom recognised the difficulties involved in being Alex and had stuck by him. He was immensely grateful for this tenuous anchor to reality that his best-friend provided.

The bike shed was in a corner of the schools vast expanse of concrete, and Alex freewheeled across the playground, weaving in and out of the student body, many of whom stared at him. Alex chained his bike up in the far corner, like he always did, with a specialised carbon fibre super-strand chain lock with a triple code lock on it. He'd got Smithers to put together the chain after he'd discovered someone trying to steal his bike only a week after he'd bought it.

The young man, who had not even had the decency to be a student, had ended up with a broken arm and a not so temporary limp, but Alex had learnt his lesson; it didn't matter where he was, on an assignment or answering his front door for the girl scouts, trust no one. Then again, according to Tom, everyone was so terrified of him that he didn't think he had much to fear from his classmates.

* * *

><p>Alex's relationship with the student body could be described as variable, at best. They all thought (with the exception of Tom, who knew) that he was weird, and had a reputation for violence. For Alex's part, he thought they were all superficial brats whose arrogance would have been unwarranted if they'd been the last person on earth, let alone one of twenty-five students and a teacher in a biology class.<p>

Still, he mused, as he wandered towards the front stairs, things could be worse. All these students would be picking potential colleges and universities in the months to come, deciding on their futures, worrying about costs, rent, living expenses and everything that came with graduating high school. Alex on the other hand was paid handsomely for doing the only job which could possibly keep him interested. It kept on his toes; he smiled to himself, fingering his 9mm Beretta under his shirt as he did so.

Attending school with a loaded weapon was an issue MI6 had nearly torn itself apart over. Ms. Jones naturally railed against the idea when it had first been proposed by Alex, but the attack on Jack Starbright's brother had changed everything. Alex was a legitimate target no matter what the circumstance, and MI6 had been shown they couldn't effectively protect him against all potential threats.

As he wandered through the bustling hallways, his mind transported him back to the nightmare that the Venice operation had been. It was almost unimaginable that such an operation had received a green light, but Alex had been angry, angrier than Mr. Blunt or Ms. Jones had ever seen, and they had reacted more to keep Alex happy than out of genuine concern.

* * *

><p><em>Reconnaissance had led them to a single building in Venice, narrowing their search. But it was massive, three stories tall, covering an entire block, and as far as their infrared scanning could tell, at least two levels of basements. Storming the building through the front door was quickly ruled out. Alex had been able to cross it off the list as soon as he set eyes on the place.<em>

_It was simply too vast for there to be any chance of them reaching the hostage before the element of surprise had worn off. To begin with, they weren't even sure where he was being held._

_It had taken nearly a week of stake-out, but eventually the team that had been assigned to assist with the operation, made a break through. They located a cleaning lady who worked in the building, and lived only a minutes' walk away. She had obviously been selected because she suffered from an impaired mental state, and struggled to communicate anything, let alone specifics._

_But speech and brain injury specialists managed to translate some of what she babbled about after she was snatched during the night. Fortunately, there was little chance of there being more than one flaming red head in a Venetian building. It had been a tense six hour period, as she had to be back at the house, without any noticeable blemishes, to avoid arousing suspicion._

_They had discerned that Tom Starbright was being held in the basement in the north-east corner of the building, and had struck quickly and viciously. Every threat was neutralized as soon as the hostage had been secured, ensuring no surprises on the way out. Tom Starbright was then bundled out onto a speedboat, which flew down Venice's waterways, and out into the open ocean, to rendezvous with a US aircraft carrier, from which he was flown back to the United States, to meet his waiting sister._

* * *

><p>Italian authorities were up in arms about a dangerous gang which had conducted a fire fight in such built up area without anyone hearing or seeing anything, and MI6 had not seen fit to rectify this assumption. Certainly the use of weapons traditionally associated with Italian organized crime had helped them stay 'under the radar'.<p>

Alex had never seen Jack again after she departed from Heathrow airport the day the news of her brothers kidnapping broke. The ransom note had been delivered to Alex's Chelsea home, but as per MI6's directions, Jack never got wind of it. If Alex hadn't intervened forcefully, he knew there was a strong chance they would have happily traded the life of the brother of Alex's housekeeper for one of their top agents. He had spoken to Jack over the phone days after Tom Starbright had landed in Washington, and she had told him what he already knew; she wasn't coming back, ever.

* * *

><p>"Rider! Repeat to me what I just spent five minutes telling you!"<p>

The snap back to the present was not a pleasant experience for Alex, as he realised he was staring out the window, daydreaming as his first lesson of the day passed him by. Everything seemed so _mundane_ to him, and it was making him fidgety. However Ms. Jones now had a copy of his report and disciplinary report card on her computer, and he knew he would get an earbashing if he wasn't living up to standards. It was all part of his cover, they claimed, so he wracked his mind for a second.

"A Euclidean is a geometric object that has both a magnitude and direction. A Euclidean vector is frequently represented by a line segment with a definite direction, or graphically as an arrow, connecting an initial point A with a terminal point B and denoted by AB with an arrow above it."

Alex smiled at the slight look of disbelief on his teacher's face as he reeled off word for word what Mr. Bryant had said not thirty seconds beforehand. Powerful memory exercises for remembering codes and directions had left him with an agile mind that operated more like a bottle than a sieve. Despite having been thinking about somewhere across the other side of the continent, his instant recall was dialled in to pick up snippets of contextual noise and other stimuli, much the same as if he was conducting one conversation in a room while attempting to eavesdrop on another.

It had taken him many, many months to even begin to perform it to a slightly competent level, and he still struggled unless the rest of the room was silent, like it was now. It was like those brain-training games people had on their mobile phones, computers and mp3 players, but actually practical.

"It would be nice if you faced the front," Mr. Bryant said, sounding slightly deflated. Alex simply nodded, before brazenly returning to staring out of the window.

**Good news and bad news. Good news first? I have finished all my assignments, and hopefully another chapter will be forthcoming very soon. Bad news? I have exams in a few weeks, and that's going to eat into any writing time I have. I also get shocking writers block, and blow hot and cold on stories in the space of about five minutes. It makes it very hard to get anything done. If you've got any hints for combating writers block, it would definitely be appreciated. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Welcome to new MI6, as opposed to old MI6 where apparently every man and his dog knew where it was, and it's security system appeared to consist of a piece of string that was attached a can of rocks which rattled when someone opened the front door. Surely, surely secret services would have better security systems than pretending to be a bank, and backing it up by having 'an-ex agent with a pistol' on reception. Even if that did crop up in this chapter... anyway, as always, please read and review!**

* * *

><p>The bell rang for the final time that day, and Alex quickly packed his books away as chatter broke out around him. Discussions ranged from football to schoolwork, with not much variation in the middle. It was part of what frustrated Alex so much about coming back to Brookland; everyone and everything was so mundane.<p>

It was a relief then, when his pocket vibrated to inform him he was being called. No one else, not even Tom had the number for his phone, it was strictly business. He placed his books in his locker, glancing to either side to ensure that no one was in earshot, before answering it.

"Rider speaking."

"Agent Rider, this is reception. This is a cursory call to remind you of your meeting today at Liverpool Street. You are expected at 4 o'clock."

With that, the lady at the other end hung up. Of course, she was an ex-agent also, who had been deemed physically unable to perform her duties, he assumed, and so had taken up a desk job like so many retired operatives had. It was the cushy way to keep working without really working, and Alex could never see him reducing himself to that level; he needed to keep his mind and body active or else he'd go insane.

Tom had athletics training on Monday evenings, so Alex didn't get to see him after school had finished. It made Alex reminisce back to the days when he too had competed in athletics and the football team. That had no longer been a possibility after he turned 15. No team was interested in having a player that would mysteriously disappear for three months at the drop of a hat.

* * *

><p>It was a lonely bike-ride back to his Knightsbridge home, which he completed quickly. He wanted to give himself enough time to shower and freshen up before he arrived at Royal and General. He knew he was going to be put on the fire for disobeying orders and ignoring protocol, so he wanted to make a good impression. It may not have seemed important, but to a keen observer of the human condition and psyche like Alex, appearances were everything.<p>

After his shower, Alex put on business slacks, a slim fitted, light blue shirt, and leather shoes, before running a casual hand through his hair to make sure it was still as artfully messy as ever. This time on his way to the door, however, he grabbed his car keys and not his helmet. MI6 had expressly banned anything aside from non-descript cars entering and exiting the building to avoid arousing suspicion, so Alex was confined to his Mercedes.

Alex had selected the car on the advice of MI6, from their list of acceptable vehicles. The list was short, and only permitted shades of white, grey and black. Nothing that could possibly turn a head or draw an unwanted eye to the building.

* * *

><p>Entering the car park at Royal and General was comparable, Alex imagined, to trying to drive a tank into Fort Know. The security was meticulous, even for Alex's high standards. Each vehicle entered through a steel sliding door after swiping their 'employee' card, which appeared regulation, but was in fact a finger print sensor that registered anyone who had touched the card in the previous 24 hours. Once the first door opened, Alex progressed slowly forward, where he was confronted with another identical door to the one that slid shut behind him.<p>

Confined in the steel and concrete blast-proof box, the car was scanned top to toe for explosives and registered threats such as weapons, the x-ray scanning plate making short work of whatever material his Mercedes was made of. He'd seen a print out one day of what that machine could do; it had been like looking through glass.

Once that was complete, he was allowed into the car park. Getting into the elevator took a retina scan along with two minutes of voice recognition and password entry. People always wondered why government response was so notoriously tardy; it was because whenever an emergency meeting was called to decide on a response, it took people half a lifetime to just make it into the relevant building.

* * *

><p>As soon as Alex had set foot in the Royal and General car park, he'd got his poker face on. Betray no nerves, because nervousness suggested guilt, regardless of the truth. Quiet confidence was the most impressive, and Alex had perfected its maintenance in all situations where the need arose.<p>

Alex, of course, had left his sidearm in the car, in his customised hidey-hole behind the steering wheel, which would frustrate even the most committed thieves. The only way it would be found was if someone physically removed the steering wheel.

The Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife that he was so fond off sat in the glove box, in its sheath. Alex wasn't worried about that falling into the wrong hands, he had complete faith in his ability to return it to the correct set of hands if confronted with it.

* * *

><p>The elevator ride from the basement to the top floor of MI6 headquarters took less than a minute, including the tinny voice that informed him he was expected without him even having to touch a button. There wasn't actually a button that could be pushed if one wanted to see Alan Blunt or Ms. Jones. It was strictly by appointment only.<p>

When the doors slid open on the top floor, there were only two options. To Alex's right was a door, immediately as he exited, to Ms. Jones' office. To his left, there was an S-bend, which opened out into Mr. Blunt's office, which is the direction Alex headed.

The sight that confronted him, to his mind, was one of the more amusing he'd experienced, not that he let it show of course. There were three people in the room, the two usual occupants and one other. Jonathon Matthews-Prosser was standing behind a seated Alan Blunt, and the smoke was almost visible as his face went beetroot red at the cause of his displeasure.

"Mr. Rider..." he spluttered, a rather unconvincing starting place Alex thought, but he kept silent.

"Agent Rider, Mr. Matthews-Prosser has voiced considerable distaste for the way you conducted yourself last night at the charity gala," Alan Blunt interjected, and Alex gave him his best wide-eyed look. He knew he'd never fool the head of MI6, but he got the feeling this was more about pacifying their unwanted guest and shipping him out as quickly as possible, than retributive action.

"You will never work with me again..." Jonathon Matthews-Prosser's rage had now developed into apoplexy, but Alan Blunt simply nodded.

The tone of dismissal was unmistakeable, even for an imbecile like Jonathon Matthews-Prosser.

"If that is all, Jonathon? I'm sorry to hurry you, but we have serious business to attend to."

Alex had to look elsewhere to suppress his grin. That was the closest Alan Blunt got to humour, was being short-tempered with half-wits. It happened irregularly, but it was entertaining when it did.

"No coincidence just how well it rhymes with tosser," Alex muttered under his breath, as Matthews-Prosser made his way to the elevator. He received the coldest glare of his life as the man stared at him until the doors slide shut.

"Now Agent Rider, we have business to attend to."

That was going to be more of a problem.

* * *

><p>"If, for whatever reason, next time you decide to take liberties with your asset, make damn sure that you can construct a cover that is preferably less transparent than my office window. In fact, my office window is an excellent metaphor; you can see out, but they cannot see in. I was not expecting a phone call, on top of all the panicked and frankly unwelcome visits I received in the wake of yesterdays little incident, telling me that one of my agents was taking extreme liberties with the only daughter of our Prime Minister."<p>

"Your little stunt at the checkpoint was suicidally stupid and the reasoning apparently incoherent. Oh yes, the Prime Minister spoke with his daughter, who then passed on the information to me. She seemed to think she was doing you a favour by recounting every little detail of your little escapade. Fortunately for you no one was hurt and we were able to cover for all the damage you did."

Alex said nothing as he received his dues. He'd known it was coming, and despite Alan Blunt never once raising his voice, there was an undeniable note that rang somewhere between disappointment and cold fury. In the light of day, he had committed some unthinkable acts the previous evening, tearing up the book of protocols and then setting fire to it, before scattering its ashes just for good measure.

And then as quickly as his remonstrations had begun, they ceased, and Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones were moving on, and by the expressions on their usually placid faces, it was something big.

Ms. Jones stood and sucked on her peppermint, staring at Alex over her half moon spectacles, as if appraising him, just as she had done the first time they had met.

Whatever they were planning, it was massive.

* * *

><p>"Late last year," Alan Blunt began, as he unfurled a map on his desk, "the incumbent Italian government was rapidly losing popular support and Prime Minister Belusconti faced a vote of no confidence in the parliament for attempting to alter the constitution illegitimately, in a move that was seen to benefit organized crime syndicates."<p>

"You may have seen it on the news, several countries threatened boycotts and sanctions at the United Nations if the bill was passed," Ms. Jones interjected.

"The bill failed as did the vote of no confidence, but gave grounds for the opposition to legally challenge Belusconti through the courts in an attempt to have him impeached. The Supreme Court ruled in favour of the opposition, and called for elections to be held to re-elect a government, but Belusconti insisted on his right to appeal, and remain Prime Minister while this occurred. Then reports emerged of attempted bribery of Supreme Court and debate about whether the impeachment was effective immediately."

"Then, three days into the New Year, Italy's biggest bank, _Banca Nazionale Italiana_, collapsed and plunged the country into crisis. The European Union attempted to construct a bailout package, but with no recognizable government, there was no way to negotiate or implement its conditions," Ms. Jones said.

"I saw all of this on television, they won't stop talking about it, but how is this relevant to me?"

Alex was seated in front of the table, and was looking at the map closely.

"Normally it wouldn't be. In Italy, things are a little different. I take it you've heard of the Mafia?" Ms. Jones enquired rhetorically.

"Yes of course. Everyone has seen The Godfather. Sicilian gangsters and their white fedoras, toting Tommy Guns and smoking cigars."

"Yes well that is the 1920's Mafia, certainly. In the 21st century, the Mafia aren't even called the Mafia anymore, they are the Cosa Nostra these days, and up until 2006 they were subject to an extremely harsh law known as 41 BIS which was extremely limiting for their operations. However, Belusconti's parliament failed to agree on a renewal in 2006, and the constitutional protection was all that remained," Ms Jones explained patiently.

"But since the turn of the millennium, the Cosa Nostra was not Italy's biggest concern. Are you aware of a group known as the 'Ndrangheta?'' Mr. Blunt asked, staring at Alex.

"I've only heard of them," Alex admitted, "I know nothing about them."

"Well you should, because they used to control 80% of the cocaine that was imported into Europe, up until only a few months ago, anyway."

Alex sensed that this was about to all become clear as why he was relevant to this situation became apparent.

"Why only up until a few months ago?" Alex asked.

"Because in the midst of all the other turmoil, the south east of Italy became united, in a completely unprecedented move. The Cosa Nostra and the 'Ngrangheta came together peacefully, and amalgamated themselves into a behemoth crime syndicate that controlled the entire country, save for a few pockets of rival gangs and smugglers."

"Why do we care about Italy's internal crime problems?" Alex asked.

"Because the 'Ngrangheta, it has been estimated, contributed 3% of Italy's gross domestic product. That is $63 billion US dollars a year in drugs, weapon and people smuggled across the planet. For the Cosa Nostra, add another 20%. This is serious money, they are as large as any multinational corporation, and they are particularly in the business of exporting drugs to mainland Europe. If you buy a bag of cocaine in Soho tonight, there's an 85% chance that some of that money is going into the pocket of someone in the south of Italy."

"The problem used to be manageable, they would conduct an elaborate dance with authorities, which protected the rest of the world to an acceptable degree. But public servants and public sector workers haven't seen an honest pay check this year, and they are getting desperate. Border security is struggling to keep its collective nose clean. Bribery is rife, and the results are devastating."

"The amount of cocaine and crack seized by police is already more this year than the total amount last year; heroine is on the up, as is ice and MDA. Ecstasy tablets are pouring onto our shores, and we are trying to plug the breach in the dam with the resources we have, but it's simply unmanageable. The combination of the Italian political crisis, and the merging of the two behemoths of Italian crime has created the perfect scenario for criminals seeking to make a profit, and it's impacting every nation on the planet where drugs are sold."

* * *

><p>Alex breathed out slightly. This was big. Really big.<p>

"So what am I here for?" he asked.

Alan Blunt stared him coldly in the eyes.

"Italy cannot be relied upon to get itself in order, and deal with the problem. So we will deal with it instead. The new amalgamation of the Sicilian families has been facilitated by one family in particular, a very special family. Giorgio Benevento was born in 1957 in a very unique situation."

"He had a father from the 'Ngrangheta and a mother who was the daughter of a Mafia don. Such a marriage was unheard of, so they eloped," Ms Jones explained, as Alan Blunt looked slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of discussing relationships.

"How very Romeo and Juliet of them," Alex commented drily.

"Perhaps, but I doubt Romeo and Juliet had much else in common. Giorgio Benevento's parents set about living the only way they knew how; by being career criminals and running their own syndicate/family."

"They became known for the ruthlessness and brutality, going so far as to execute all the family members on the father's side to seize control of their patch after a turf war broke out. Needless to say, they rose quickly in reputation, and the current Benevento has done nothing to halt that rise. He is the only family head alive who has an active foot in both camps, and as the biggest, most influential family in Italy, he brought the 'Ngrangheta and Cosa Nostra together."

"And elected himself leader?" Alex asked.

"Well, not officially. But you must be a brave man to vote against Giorgio Benevento I imagine. The police want to speak to him in relation to nearly ten murders, and many more suspect disappearances, but the local police force has been extremely uncooperative."

"Bribery?" Alex asked.

"Of course. Especially now, when everyone is struggling. The Mafia have money and the people are desperate. It is difficult to convince a starving man that it is morally wrong to help drug dealers if it ensures your own survival and well-being, as well as that of your family."

His role still hadn't been addressed however, and Alex repeated his question.

"So what am I going to be doing?"

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not sure if this counts as a cliff-hanger, but I promise the next chapter is going to be better and hopefully more interesting for you. I can imagine most of you are screaming obscenities at me through the monitor about how little you care about the political background and history of my Italy, and I'm sorry if I bored you to tears. But most of the stuff to do with the Cosa Nostra and 'Ngrangheta I referenced is true, including the estimated 3% of GDP stat, which is incredible. I try to research as much as possible to keep everything very authentic, so if anything interests you, you can either ask me or google it because it almost certainly existshappened in real life.**

**Anyway, please take a second to leave me a review; you can't imagine how great they are when I'm trying to motivate myself to keep writing, I legitimately read them all for your thoughts and opinions :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, sorry about the delay. Here's some real story meat for you, hope you enjoy it! As always, please read and review!**

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><p>The sight of a two-inch thick set of bound A4 sheets did not fill Alex's heart with joy, as it was handed to him across the desk.<p>

"That is all the background information you will need to know for this assignment," Ms. Jones informed him.

"I don't suppose you have an abridged version handy?" Alex asked, staring apprehensively at the hefty collation of documents.

"That is the abridged version," Ms. Jones replied, her face unmoved.

* * *

><p>"The drug operation of the Sicilian Families, for want of a better name, is as complex and secretive as it is successful," Alan Blunt began, observing Alex over his spectacles. "As are all their operations, drugs, arms and people. But it is the drug trade that is our particular concern."<p>

"Much time and many resources have been spent attempting to discover the supply and distribution routes and methods of the individuals and groups who control the trade in narcotics, but while our efforts with smaller organizations have yielded some success, the Sicilian Families have evaded our every attempt to infiltrate their operation."

"They are completely hands off, as far as we can tell. None of them are seen within a hundred kilometres of a shipment or order, and anyone who we do catch is either is willing to do the time, or has no idea who owns the product they are selling."

"This process of middle men in narcotics dealing is something no law enforcement agency is equipped to deal with, because there is simply nothing else like it. The only thing that was regulating their operation was Italy's internal control, which confined their activities immeasurably."

"Since the political crisis began, things have only gotten worse. We are suddenly being flooded with illegal narcotics in the UK, as our border and coast guards attempt to fight the surge, but it is an impossible battle, one that is being replicated across the globe."

"So we have gained permission from the country's highest defence authority to undertake whatever action we feel necessary to lessen or ideally halt this flow. Agent Rider, this is where you come in."

* * *

><p>Ms. Jones took over here, as Alex listened intently.<p>

"Naturally, we are attempting to use conventional methods to fight the importation of drugs into this country, but we cannot win fighting the drug war like this. We need to collapse the system from the inside."

"In short, Agent Rider, you will be going undercover. Deep, deep undercover, attempting to get as close to the heart of the operation in the south of Italy as you can. This assignment has massive inherent risk factors, and as such, your cover will have to be almost impenetrable."

Alan Blunt chimed in once more.

"We have to stress the uniqueness of this assignment. What we are proposing here is like nothing we have seen since the end of the Cold War, maybe even World War II. We are looking to create the deepest cover imaginable, and essentially utilize your skills as a 'sleeper' in order to work your way inside. There is no operational objective for this mission, somewhat controversially," he added, with a dark look, "on account of the extreme risk factors."

"Instead the agency is seeking knowledge and information about the structure and operation of the organisation, to assist us in further combating their operations. We have, however," Alan Blunt continued in an indicative tone, "provided breathing room for you to undertake action as you see fit."

Ms. Jones' expression darkened almost unnoticeably, but Alex didn't miss it. She had clearly been at odds with her superior over this detail of exactly what the mission objectives were, and she spoke to this end.

"In essence, we are seeking to establish a foothold in the region, an intelligence asset. This is the primary goal. Anything more than this is considered an optional extra."

"A bonus, if you will," Alan Blunt clarified.

"Certainly, in practice, we are not expecting anything in particular in this operation. It is all in your handbook, which, I might add, cannot leave your house after you take it home to study. That is the only copy we have made of the original file, and it must be returned to us so it can be destroyed."

"The procedure is largely hypothetical, and has no time-frame for completion. Frankly, this is completely unlike anything we've done before."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes after Alex left, Tulip Jones and Alan Blunt remained in the main office, the only sound being the slight sucking noise emanating from the slowly dissolving peppermint in Ms. Jones' mouth. They had finished their conversation, and were now waiting for their last visitor of the day to arrive.<p>

The doors of the elevator chimed as they opened, and a portly man in his mid-fifties was revealed, wearing a suit that looked as if the buttons might give way at any second. It was his first time in this office, but he knew the interior of it like the back of his hand. Hours of footage of it observed on internal CCTV from three floors below ensured that much.

Henry Parker was a military psychologist, who had served with the British Army in the Faulklands and advised the US in the second Gulf War. He was experienced, knowledgable, and above all else in MI6's eyes, trustworthy.

Ms. Jones had first recommended he was brought in after Alex's first mission, way back when he was fourteen. Alan Blunt had been more concerned with ensuring that Alex's identity remained a secret than his mental health, and so the idea was scrapped.

That was until Alex wound up facing Damien Cray, coincidentally another drug related mission, although for altogether different purposes. Henry Parker had been enlisted casually for years, but in the preparation for the upcoming assignment in Italy, MI6 had commissioned a study on the youngest operative in their history.

They were seeking a complete psycho-analysis of Alex Rider, from his outward facade to the depths of his mind. They were interested in his resilience, fortitude, comprehension and intuition. These were the identifiable characteristics of an undercover agent, and for the proposed assignment, Alex would have to be at his absolute best, constantly.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Parker, take a seat."<p>

The man squeezed himself into the chair that Alex had comfortably resided in before him, and they began to discuss its previous resident.

"Subject RA371 is a truly unique specimen amongst human beings," began the psychologist, flicking through his collated papers.

Henry Parker didn't even know the boys name, his security clearance not even granting him that. So he was simply a code. He didn't know what to think when he'd first seen this kid that they'd asked him to assess, he'd looked barely older than his own son at home.

But the boy had survived seemingly through some seriously un-teenage like situations relatively unharmed physically. Of course, given that he was not allowed audio other than some harmless, MI6 selected snippets of conversation; it was truly hard to judge.

"He appears to be completely disconnected from the world, especially after observing his interactions at his school from the footage I was shown. In any other child, he would be described as extremely mature for his age. However, this is not strictly the case; I believe he simply has no emotional connections, or if so, they are very tenuous."

"He shows little sign of post-traumatic stress disorder, which given my limited knowledge of what he has undergone, is truly remarkable. He holds exacting standards in everything he does in life, which translates well into operational performance."

Ms. Jones couldn't help herself.

"Yes, but how does he manage socially? Is he simply an outcast by nature of what he's seen and done, or is it irreversible?"

"He gains pleasure, as his file shows, from things like playing and watching sports. This is a positive sign for anyone concerned about RA371's mental health and stability."

Even though there were three people in the room, Henry Parker was sure he could safely say only two people fell into that category.

"More importantly," Alan Blunt interrupted quickly, "what about his potential for a spending long period of time in isolation from the agency? How are his resilience levels?"

"In a word? Exceptional. He displays demonstrably that he is mentally stronger than any of your other 'employees' that I've observed. It's almost scary. He shows no signs of being vulnerable to any form of Stockholm Syndrome, if that is what concerns you. " he trailed off, as Blunt nodded his head approvingly.

"Thank you, Mr. Parker, you have been most helpful. If you could leave the full report right where it is, I would appreciate it. We will ensure it is safely added to the file after we have finished reviewing it."

* * *

><p>Alex was seated in the back of Mr. Redford's biology class with Tom, manfully willing the clock to tick half a second faster so he could escape the suffocation of Chloroplast's and Cytoplasm's.<p>

It was nearly a week after his meeting at Royal and General, and he had heard nothing more about the assignment. Instead, he had busied himself reading the binder of documents he had been given, which was over seven hundred pages long. His homework had suffered for it, but he cared little. People went to school to get jobs, and he already had one, why bother himself overly with it he thought.

The information in the binder was extremely superficial, and much of it speculation, given how secretive the subject matter was. Still, Alex diligently waded through it, making mental notes of the most important features, such as the hundred pages of known associates, ranked from closest to most distant, and confirmed activities and investigations into the Cosa Nostra and 'Ngrangheta. Of course, most of it was out of date, and little of it could be relied upon to still hold true, but Alex read it anyway. If it pertained to his assignment, he wanted to be aware of it.

* * *

><p>He became aware that his pocket was vibrating at him, and he raised his hand in the middle of one of Mr. Redford infamous spiels about cell reproduction, and without waiting to be addressed, he requested to go to the toilet.<p>

"Rider, the end of the day is only minutes away, surely you can wait?"

"Sorry sir," he replied, standing up, "when you've gotta go, you've gotta go."

The words pained him as they rolled off his tongue, but he made it out of the door unchallenged, and picked up his phone with his free hand, readjusting the books which he'd slipped out underneath his jacket so Mr. Redford didn't notice. He had an idea he wasn't going to be coming back from his 'toilet break'.

"Rider speaking."

"Agent Rider," came the unmistakeably bland voice of Alan Blunt, "there is a car waiting for you at the front gates. Your presence is required."

Alex smiled as he jogged to his locker to deposit his books. He had a feeling school textbooks were the last thing he would be needing, although he was wondering exactly what he would be needing. It seemed a little sudden and unplanned for the supposedly vital Italy assignment. It was not his to wonder why, he mused, it was only his to do or die.

The black sedan with the illegally dark tinting was indeed waiting for him, and he hopped inside. As soon as he was seated, his phone rang once more, as the car pulled away speedily.

"Agent Rider, you are being taken to the RAF base at Weston-on-Green, to the north-west. Waiting for your arrival is your former SAS unit, identification letter: K, who you will be operating with on this assignment."

"You are flying on a C-17 Globemaster III which is on-route to Afghanistan. However, it will be making a stop to deposit you and the members of K-Unit at RAF Gibraltar while it refuels. Further instructions lie in the folder on the back seat of the vehicle you are currently travelling in, familiarise yourself with the necessary details. Oh, and Agent Rider?"

"Yes sir?"

"Do come back in one piece. The Italy assignment is about to be green-lit, and I wouldn't want to have to postpone it for any reason."

"Yes sir."

* * *

><p>The folder was not particularly thick, but Alex was under no illusions. This was no walk in the park.<p>

On the news the previous week, he'd seen a story on the BBC about the disappearance of a British diplomat working on border of Tunisia and Libya, attempting to negotiate a peace settlement for the Libyan citizens who had fled the civil war, under the terms of the combined NATO and United Nations agreement.

The diplomat, Jeremy Mendelssohn, along with all his aides and advisors who he had brought with him, had disappeared, provoking a desperate reaction from the government. A few days later, footage emerged, along with a ransom demand, calling for all those convicted in association with the 2005 London Bombings be released in exchange for the diplomat and his aides lives.

The English government quickly ruled out this idea, and the saga had been playing out on television for the entire week. And now it was right in front of him, with an A4 page dedicated to each hostage, a map of the compound where they had been located only hours before, and a plan. The offer ran out within 24 hours, and there was no doubt the kidnappers would follow through on their execution threat. They were idealist extremists who sought political gains, not monetary ones.

Jeremy Mendelssohn was a popular figure within the ruling party, however, and a personal friend of David Atherton, the Prime Minister. Alex was in no doubt as to where the pressure for this mission was coming from. He was fairly sure that if an ardent supporter of the opposition was in the same position, there would have been considerably more reluctance to impinge upon another nation's sovereignty.

Alex's first query as to why his involvement was required, but it quickly became clear; the plan was a basic bait and switch tactic, a diversion of the crudest form. Alex would play the bait, distracting the guards long enough to allow the SAS men to approach the compound from the rear. It sounded like a tactical plan made up by a kid playing a computer game, but it was all right there in front of him on the page. He sighed to himself resignedly. Here we go again, he thought, as the car swung through the open gates of the RAF base.

* * *

><p><strong>Not really a cliff-hanger, but I'm excited to see Alex in action! Cause you know he's going to do his thing, like he always does. Hope the politics didn't wear too thin, I think it adds realism to the story but maybe that's just me. Also, I should add a disclaimer, while I try to use real objects, places and people as much as possible; a lot of this is a figment of my imagination. So don't go using this in your school politics class, or else my schools politics teacher will murder me. You know she'll hear about it, too. That's also a disclaimer, none of my OC's are meant to represent real people...much. Anyway, please review, leave me your suggestions and comments, because you know I'll read them all!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, so I understand some of you are going to ask where I've been. To be honest, I don't really feel like telling you the full story, we'll just leave it as a family event. Anyway, moral of the story is, I didn't feel much like writing for a few weeks, but now I'm back and better than ever... hopefully. As always, please read and review!**

* * *

><p>It was not difficult to spot the enormous US transport plane as the car pulled onto the runway. It simply dwarfed everything in sight. It was 55 feet high, 175 feet long, and wingtip to wingtip could comfortably accommodate half a football field and then some. It was a true behemoth, and Alex was surprised that it could even land on the small runway of the almost obsolete RAF base.<p>

The car coasted towards the plane, and Alex noted that the base was completely empty aside from the activity that was occurring at the rear of the C-17. Compared to the monstrously large aeroplane, however, the people surrounding it appeared to be specks, like ants furiously working around their queen.

The Mercedes pulled up and Alex stepped out, leaving the folder on the back seat, without even having seen the drivers face. It was the way things worked, so he was not perturbed as the vehicle simply turned around, and drove away.

The first thing he noted was the smell of freshly cut grass assaulting his nasal passages, and he smiled, as he heard the barked commands coming from down the runway. He rubbed his arm gently, and languidly made his way towards the voices.

"Get a move on! Come on; unless you want to swim to Gibraltar, I suggest you put your bloody back into it!"

Alex could only smile. He hadn't seen them for months, but nothing changed. Even from a single sentence, he could tell K-Unit were still exactly the same as when he'd left them last, which coincidentally had been on the banks of the Dasht River, right on the border of Pakistan and Iran.

* * *

><p>Alex stopped and observed the quad working to load the aeroplane.<p>

"I didn't think it was possible for you four to get any uglier," Alex commented in a stage whisper, his smile stretching from ear to ear, as the four men turned around. Bear dropped the box he had just been being shouted at for not loading fast enough, and laughed loudly.

"Clearly I was wrong."

"Come here you mutt!" shouted Bear with a massive grin stretched across his face, his arms outstretched.

Members of the public often found K-Units fourth member intimidating when he was off rotation. Standing 6 feet, four inches tall and weighing in at over 250 pounds probably had something to do with it. Also the fact that his arms were bigger than most people's midriffs could have also been a contributing factor.

The bottom line, though, was that Bear was fun. Certainly the most fun of the team, anyway, despite them lightening up considerably since Alex had known them. Alex was almost certain that Bear had been added after the departure of Ben Daniels to MI6 for exactly that reason, to encourage the other three to ease up every now and then. To a degree it had worked, they were still coarse and fiercely independent, but Alex knew he qualified as a special case. After everything they had all been through, they treated him like an honorary fifth member.

* * *

><p>"Cub, you've arrived," Wolf said, clasping his hand firmly, letting a smile slip through the stony facade. The comradeship the five of them felt for one another was unspoken, not that there was any need. Each had saved the others neck at some point during their long history, and the bond they all shared would be impossible to break. Alex couldn't envisage them coming around for a Sunday roast any day soon, but then again, no one did anything like that in the service. MI6 rules clearly stated that no unwarranted personal contact outside the workplace was permissible. The less they knew about each other, the better.<p>

The loading ramp of the Globemaster III was lowered, and the enormous planes hollow interior was on show for all to see. There was space for 135 troops, or alternatively, a 65 ton Abrams M1 tank. All this particular flight would be carrying, however, was four men and a one almost-man, and a few caseloads of equipment on its roundabout journey to bring back troops on rotation in Afghanistan.

"What can I do?" Alex asked, looking around for something to help carry.

"You can change out of your civies," Wolf replied, gesturing at his clothing, and then to one of the few remaining crates. "You should find fatigues in that one."

Sure enough, Alex found a pair of desert camouflage cargo pants and a matching shirt, as well as a pair of Magnum combat boots, Alex's operational footwear of choice

* * *

><p>"So... how was school today?" Bear asked, his voice laced with sarcasm, as they loaded the final crate into the hold.<p>

"Probably better than spending my afternoon shelf-stacking," Alex retorted, as he folded up his civilian clothing.

"Alright!" shouted Wolf over the top of Alex and Bear's bickering. "Let's lock and load gents. We are airborne in five minutes, get your shit together!"

"Yessir!" Alex and Bear replied. There had never been any confusion in the team about who was leading, on any of the missions. Alex was on SAS turf, so Wolf pulled rank on him, and he had no arguments about it.

The five of them hopped onto the massive rear hatch of the Globemaster III, as it slowly began to close up, shutting out the last of the natural light. Outside, the four Pratt & Whitney engines began to throb, and then growl. The beast was awakening.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts and fold your flip down trays into the seat in front of you. Please ensure all electronic devices are either switched to aeroplane mode or to off, and we hope you enjoy a safe flight courtesy of Samuelson Airways."

The voice of the loudspeaker made Alex chuckle slightly, as Rodger Samuelson, an RAF transport pilot that K-Unit was very familiar with gave them a tongue-in-cheek welcome aboard.

"It would be funnier if he hadn't done it the last twenty times," Bear said loudly, his voice echoing off the cavernous walls of the hollow aircraft. Aside from the seven crates of equipment that K-Unit had loaded onto the pallets and tied down, the space was empty. Alex could have started a game of football in the hold, and had plenty of room left to play with. Not that he was considering it, of course.

"Just for you Bear, I think I'll try out a couple of barrel rolls over the Mediterranean," came the reply over the speakers.

"No barrel rolls!" barked Wolf, slightly louder than Alex assumed he intended, and the other three struggled to hide their smiles. It was no secret that Wolf was not a fan of air travel.

* * *

><p>Nevertheless, the five of them found pallet seats; fold out chairs attached to the walls of the aircraft, and they strapped themselves in with chest harnesses. This was no commercial flight; takeoff and landings were not performed to maximize comfort and pleasure, they were done to minimize flight delays and threats. Despite them presently sitting on a runway in the centre of the United Kingdom, RAF pilots never deviated from their protocol. It was part of what made them amongst the best pilots in the world.<p>

The process of going from being stationary on the ground to airborne at a cruising speed of 515 miles per hour would, for any normal human being, be considered a fairly exceptional day, especially when the cavernous space inside the aircraft should have made the entire experience rather more frightening.

It was another reminder that this was no passenger flight. The angle of ascent was like nothing your average British Airways 747 had ever seen. Alex slid sideways on his seat, and he suddenly realised why K-Unit were sitting so far apart; it was to avoid awkward moments of undesirable contact with each other.

* * *

><p>It was a two and a half hour flight, and once the cruising altitude had been reached, the members of K-Unit immediately unbuckled themselves and began unlocking crates and checking equipment. When they were satisfied that everything they required had been brought, they clustered around a box where a printed out blueprint of the complex had been placed by Wolf for their initial mission briefing.<p>

"A hundred yards wide by eighty yards deep," Snake said, indicating to the perimeter wall, "and nearly three metres high. It's an old World War II remnant from the campaign in North Africa. Bad news; it's heavily fortified, and it seems probable that the politically motivated kidnappers hired a band of roving mercenaries that were heading for Libya in its present state of crisis."

Wolf took over. "The good news is, however, that since they've taken one of our 70 year old fortified positions, we have the complete plans to the layout of the complex, barring any significant changes. Therefore, we can be almost certain that the hostages are being held in the basement of this building, which from now on is designated building A. Got that?"

The team nodded, and Alex followed suit, studying the plans carefully. He knew this was mainly for his benefit, and he needed to compensate for being the most underprepared by being the most studious.

"We have a basic strategy," Wolf continued, looking around the makeshift table at them. "We are relying on Cub to provide a distraction long enough that we can. You, I am reliably informed, speak Arabic?"

Alex looked up.

"Yeah I speak Arabic, but I hope you're not asking me to give a soliloquy," he replied, looking slight perturbed, "Tunisian Arabic is a whole other ballgame. They'll understand me, but I'll sound like a foreigner from a mile away, ignoring the fact that I have light skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. I might deceive a blind mercenary whose hearing isn't wonderful," Alex added slightly venomously. He wasn't pleased with the simplicity or lack of planning that had gone into the operation, and it showed.

Wolf frowned but ignored the acerbic comments of the team's youngest member. "You are taking the guise of a small-time arms dealer's employee and front runner; however you want to play it. Point is, if there are two things guns for hire can't resist its more guns and women."

"So you've stuffed a couple of crates full of women?" Alex asked.

"We've brought you a full body disguise to cover up your obvious deficiencies, and a cache of weapons an arms dealer in North Africa could believably get his hands on yet are still attractive enough to catch a mercenaries eye," Bear responded, pointing to a locked crate.

"And what, I'm supposed to spruik my wares to a group of mercenaries while you lot sneak in a side door?" Alex asked incredulously.

"Haven't met too many mercenary crews apparently then Cub?" Bear laughed. "They tend not to be receptive to spruiking, or any sought of sales pitch for that matter. They're more in the taking without asking nicely business, if they think you're vulnerable, and you're going to be very vulnerable looking," Bear said.

"You will adopt a disguise, and hopefully draw the attention and firepower away from patrolling and give us time to infiltrate and attack the complex," Wolf finished off.

"So basically I'm the sacrificial lamb," Alex replied.

"Of course not, at the first sign of oncoming danger, your mission brief instructs you to seek cover and safety," Wolf replied.

"...in the middle of the desert," Alex finished off. "Basically I'm just going to have to shoot them before they shoot me. I'll just keep it simple."

"You do what you have to do to stay alive. That is priority one here, making sure our team gets home all in one piece."

"Out of interest, who designed this mission brief?" Alex enquired, staring at it again.

"I'm not sure exactly, but I received it indirectly from Jonathon Matthews-Prosser, the National Securities Advisor."

"That figures."

* * *

><p>The airstrip at Gibraltar was about as impressive as it got when it came to landings and takeoffs. The famous rock stuck out of the sea many hundreds of feet into the sky, and the runway ran horizontal to it, across the strip of land north of it, from one side of the coast to the other.<p>

The landing was not particularly smooth, but it was quick. They were disembarking from the plane in no time, and Alex helped unload the crates as best he could. The heaviest ones were naturally left to Bear, who despite them having a trolley on hand, simply raised them to chest height, and carried off the aircraft.

The runway was completely clear, aside from one other vehicle; A very strange looking aircraft that appeared to have a massive circular dish on its back, and was completely dwarfed by the Globemaster. It would, however, be the platform from which their mission would be launched, and they loaded up an airport tow trolley and sat on the crates as they zoomed down the runway towards it.

The aeroplane was a Sentry AEW1, and the dish on the back was an enormous radar dish. The plane had been pulled out of service over Libya, especially for the operation. It would fly overwatch, and provide instant updates from the air as to what was occurring on the ground. It would also be the point from which Alex and then the members of K-Unit would launch themselves from and skydive 25,000 feet to the desert floor, roughly an hour apart.

* * *

><p>Alex was not feeling at all like himself. For one, he was standing at the exit lock of an aeroplane, hanging on to the edges, staring out into the pitch darkness, punctured only by a small set of dim lights way down below. Secondly he was about three times as heavy as he normally was, what with his special flight suit being weighed down by five rifles and an RPG launcher, which were tightly strapped to the outer of his special wing suit. On his arm, there was an illuminated GPS which could measure to the square foot of sand he was about to crash in to, and underneath all that gear, he had on a specially selected Tunisian desert travellers garb on, or so he had been informed.<p>

Thirdly, and most pressingly, however, the air lock was open, and the only thing holding him from being sucked out of the plane was his iron grip on the handles around the doorway. Sensing the moment to have come, he leaned forwards, making sure his extremities were clear of the door before launching himself out into the early morning darkness.

* * *

><p>Falling was not a sensation one ever got used to. Even with the winged suit, Alex felt like his control over the situation was tenuous, but if he pulled his chute early, it was be as good as done. He wouldn't land for hours and would instead be buffeted by the high altitude winds. So he pulled his wrist microphone as close to his face as possible and shouted "Make Wolf jump first!" as loudly as he could manage, and he thought he was rewarded with a chuckle from Bear, but he couldn't hear as the piercing whistle of the wind became deafening as he plummeted to the earth.<p>

He then turned his attention to the altimeter on his GPS, the device that told him just how far away the earth was exactly, because as he had been informed, darkness and BASE jumping do not mix. The reliance on the GPS device working scared Alex more than anything like flinging himself out of a plane more than four and half miles in the sky.

Alex's other problem was that the air was so thin at that height that he found himself extremely short of breath. The further he fell, however, the easier it became, and once he crossed the barrier to 15,000 feet after just 50 seconds of freefalling, the air thickened, and his lungs relaxed slightly.

His heart, though, did not. He had reached a speed of five hundred miles per hour according to his GPS tracker, but in the darkness, he had little concept of speed. All he was watching was that little meter ticking through the feet as he fell towards what, one way or another, could very well be his death.

Darkness did not make things easy. The sun was starting to show some life to the East, but not enough to help Alex. He had deployed his chute at 3000 feet, which was considered unusually conservative in most skydiving circles, but he was taking no risks. With little to no visibility and a complete reliance on electronics to keep him safe, Alex wanted no part in any risk-taking.

When his altimeter read only 100 feet away from the designated height above sea-level of the landing point, Alex looked down and realised his vision area wasn't as bad as he had initially feared, but then, as he got closer, things suddenly became darker again. After the instant surge of panic where he suddenly thought he'd misjudged, he remembered the ground rush theory that he'd learned way back when he'd first night jumped with John Rider as a boy.

As the angle of reflection decreased from the ambient light, the ground appeared to become pitch black after a period of illumination, which was what had shocked him. It was this mathematical realisation that was running through his mind as his feet, then his knees and elbows, collided with the Tunisian desert.

* * *

><p><strong>So you know I love your opinions on stuff yeah? Well I need help again. I'm strongly considering upping the rating of this story from "T" to "M" to better reflect the path I foresee it taking. However, I don't want to do it if it means I'm going to lose half my readership, because you're all offendedput off by it. Anyway, let me know if you'd keep reading, or any other thoughts you've got!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Ummm... How many of you remember me? Sorry it has been a while (like four months) I went overseas for a holiday. A long holiday. But now I'm back, and I've got to be honest I had completely forgotten about this story. Still, here's some more for you to chew on.**

**... I have a feeling I might be receiving a few angry reviews**

* * *

><p>A boy in a long brown shawl, with a white turban wrapped completely in cloth so nearly his entire face was covered, shuffled through the village with his Hessian sack over one shoulder.<p>

Virtually his entire body was covered against the elements, as only his right hand on the sack and the occasional flash of exposed neck could be seen. If anyone had stopped to look closely, they would have spotted the foreigner from a mile away, but in the early morning, as the village began to wake, no one batted an eyelid.

Alex rubbed the cloth uncomfortably, as the material made his itchy and as a result, quite irritable. He was also far too hot, even in the very early hours of the morning, with two layers of clothing on. He checked his watch for the tenth time since he landed, checking how much time he had remaining. He had to find transport and make the trek almost two miles into the dunes to find the occupied outpost.

* * *

><p>Trudging through sand with nearly 20 kilograms of arms and ordinance over one shoulder was not easy work, and Alex found himself sweating like a pig as he headed West, towards the village that he could make out over the crest of the dunes. The GPS reader on his wrist informed him that it was a mere half mile away, but to him it felt more like fifty miles.<p>

The outskirts of the village were thankfully empty, as it was far too early for any self-respecting Tunisian herder or merchant to be selling their wares, but as he moved towards the centre of town, he found himself being hustled and jostled by stall-owners keen to gain prime spots to best show off their wares.

The market itself was a rickety set of structures, mostly poles that had been hammered into the sandy earth and had pieces of cloth draped between them to protect the residents from the harshest sunlight later in the day.

Alex's eyes scanned the dusty scene before him, finally alighting on what he had been looking for. There was a man on the far side who was clearly richer than most traders, because instead of carrying his wares himself or using a donkey (of which there were several) he had three camels loaded up with saddlebags, and was directing a pair of young boys as to how he wanted his large stall arranged.

* * *

><p>Alex approached him slowly, and the man appraised him as he did so.<p>

"Welcome stranger," the man said, looking him up and down.

Alex knew that he stood out, local customs were impossible to judge without concentrated reconnaissance, of which there had been none. Nevertheless he pushed on.

"Greetings," Alex replied haltingly and as quietly as possible. Even from those two words the man had spoken, Alex knew his Arabic sounded nothing like anything the man would be used to.

"You are not from around these parts," the man said simply, a statement of fact rather than a query.

"I wish to purchase some transport," Alex said, ignoring the obvious statement, which steeled the trader, and suddenly the tone of the conversation changed.

"I see. I'm sure I can provide what you need for a reasonable price," he said, gesturing at his stall with obvious pride.

"No, I have no need for trinkets, I need transport," Alex repeated, gesturing at the camels who were being unloaded.

"But my camels are my livelihood, I cannot sell them. What do you even have to offer me in return?"

"Dinar. Lots and lots of dinar," Alex replied, reaching into his sack for the smaller plastic covered bricks of notes which he had been given.

"Pah!" exclaimed the man, "I would have to make a special trip to the city for those to be any value, currency is virtually worthless here!"

Alex cursed under his breath, but continued to remove the little plastic packages.

"Would maybe 8000 Dinar change your mind?" he asked, removing the wads of cash.

He had been informed that the standard price of camels was roughly US$1000 each, depending on country and availability, and the price he had just offered was almost five and a half times that amount.

The man pretended to consider for a minute, but Alex knew he had him sold. He could survive for a year on that amount of money, and the man's breathing was suddenly heavy as if he was nervous Alex would realise just how much of a rip-off the deal they had just brokered was.

The man even seemed to feel a little guilty at how well he had done from the deal with the strange outsider, so he offered him the saddlebags as part of the deal, which Alex gratefully accepted. The sack was not and easy thing to lug about, so as soon as he had led his recent purchase out of the centre of town, he set about loading it up as best he could.

* * *

><p>Alex had never ridden a camel before, something that no one had even bothered to mention might have been an issue. Standing next to the animal, holding the simple rope tether that connected to its harness, he wondered how one mounted such an animal, given that his head barely reached the top of its back.<p>

In a far less dignified manner than he would have liked to admit to, he ended up climbing up onto a window ledge and clambering across onto the puzzled looking animal, which tossed and turned slightly as he did so. He had seen plenty of footage on the news and documentaries of men climbing onto camels that had squatted down to allow for them be boarded more easily, but he didn't have the time to work out how to do that.

Instead, treating the creature as if it were a horse with a less comfortable back to sit on, he kicked his heels in, and headed West towards the glowing red dot on the GPS indicator he had reattached to his arm.

* * *

><p>"Cub, Mary-Poppins to Cub, convey present position and status, over!"<p>

Alex had removed his earpiece as soon as he had entered the village, knowing that he would need his wits about him if he was to avoid arousing too much suspicion. Of course, their eyes in the sky in the AEW1 were not accustomed to simply being removed from the loop, and he assumed that if K-Unit hadn't been there to reassure them that full scale panic would have broken out.

"This is Cub, reading you Mary-Poppins. I have moved through the village, secured transport, and am Oscar Mike now. ETA of about 30 minutes to target. Over."

Alex somewhat resented the ridiculous military jargon that he was forced to adopt, but he knew that it was what was expected. Anyone who said the military had no sense of humour had clearly never met the guys who job it was to come up with the code names for tactical ops or their technological assistants.

Somewhere out there, a group of radio jockeys were crying with laughter as angry men with big guns were forced to reference a literary character from the 1930's who used to fly about with the aid of her umbrella and sing about spoon-fulls of sugar.

* * *

><p>Ignoring this for a moment, he readjusted his disguise. The sand coloured balaclava he wore underneath the cloth that he had wrapped around his head was a necessity for protecting his identity as soon as the raid began, and the extremely lightweight Osprey body armour gave him more bulk, helping him to appear older than he really was.<p>

The chatter in his ear was incessant and frustrated Alex no end. The perceived need to communicate the smallest of movements drove him up the wall, but there was nothing he could do about it.

One communication, however, he took note of.

"T minus fifteen minutes to jump, Cub, and... mark!"

He had just been notified that K-Unit would be following him out of the plane that was now circling at a much higher altitude, directly over the target area. Their fall would be noticeably faster however, as they would only deploy their chutes at the last possible second to make themselves as difficult to shoot out of the sky as possible.

The risks were still immense, Alex knew, regardless of how late they left it to pull their ripcords.

* * *

><p>This message served as an effective hurry up warning, and Alex wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at his GPS once more. The desert was taking its toll on him, and he took another swig of water from his canteen as the beast he sat astride trotted further into the desert, and away from the only civilisation for hundreds of miles.<p>

"Cub, our rules of engagement are simple on this one," came the voice in his ear, and Alex listened. This was the stuff that mattered. "All non identified individuals within the structure are considered hostile and probably armed. Therefore engage on sight, lethal force is approved. Seems harsh I know, but take no chances. We don't want to be flying any bodies home in boxes."

More gibberish from cross-channel linking, but Alex was ignoring it all.

The sight of the World War II era fort rose up from behind a dune to confront him like some behemoth creature had just blocked his path. It was unbelievable to think that just over half a century ago, Allied forces and the Axis powers had fought so bitterly over the control of miles upon miles of sand. His life's journey had taken him to Tobruk, the Libyan capital, the previous year, and he had seen the monument, or more specifically, the monuments. There were simply too many names of young men who had died for their country to fit them onto a single wall.

The situation that confronted him now was somewhat different to that which the British troops had faced in the 1940's. Technology had changed, the players had changed, but the game remained the same. Kill or be killed was still the end point.

And Alex had absolutely no intention of losing, not now, not ever.

* * *

><p>He steered his docile beast down a dune, and once more found himself in the precarious situation of having to trust the creature to find it's footing in the ever-shifting sand. The ground flattened out around the fort, a square walled structure, made of sandstone, with four towers at each corner. Although it had been built in the midst of the second world war, the structure had remained largely undamaged, aside from a few cracks here and there.<p>

The only notable difference was the gate, or what was left of it. Two wooden doors had clearly once hung in the space that marked the entrance, but the elements had taken their toll, and the pock-marked iron supports were all that remained.

Alex spurred his beast onwards towards this entrance, all the time watching the ramparts, looking for movement. The wind blew sand up into his eyes, and he cupped them, trying to protect himself from the stinging sensation.

It was here that he heard voices, coming from above him. The words were unmistakeably Arabic, but the dialect made it almost impossible for him to translate. He looked up, having finally cleared his vision, to find he was being looked down upon by several men, all dressed in a similar fashion to himself, except they had all accessorised with AK-47s or RPG launchers. They were all shouting at him now, and pointing, maybe all of fifteen men.

Then there was a crack.

Some of them were shooting at him.

* * *

><p>Alex turned his camel around and went to take off for the dunes, but there was no need. The terrified animal was fleeing from the menacing racket of the assault rifle fire and little puffs of sand that started to appear at its feet all of their own accord.<p>

They were speeding away from the sandstone structure as fast as the creatures legs could carry them, which, as Alex was discovering, was surprisingly rapidly. They had already made it to the first set of dunes outside the plateau that surrounded the fort, but the men on the ramparts were not letting up, apparently determined to bring him down.

Alex went to turn back to look at the fort when suddenly the creature bucked violently, and suddenly Alex was hanging on for dear life as he was carried away into the desert.

His left arm was stuck in the saddlebags, painfully tangled in the straps, preventing him from simply letting go, and his body was hanging off the right side of the camel, bouncing on its side, his toes occasionally brushing the sand as he struggled.

He desperately scrabbled for his knife, as his left wrist suddenly stopped causing him agony where the reins were cutting into it, and went numb. Fumbling around and with a great effort, he pulled himself up slightly, and managed to wrap the knife around the reins and used the movement of his former transport animal to help him slice through the leather straps that were currently dragging him along.

There was a split second where he suddenly realised it might not have been such a wonderful idea, before he bounced off the camel's side and landed face down in the desert.

* * *

><p>Dimly, the sound of the camel's hooves could be heard, thundering away into the depths of the Sahara, leaving Alex with only a mouth full of sand for for his efforts.<p>

Scrambling to his feet, he swore viciously. In his ear, the chattering had not let up, and Alex responded only by switching on his microphone to give a particularly vicious dismisal, but it told them what they needed to know; he was still alive, if only temporarily.

His elegant dismount had left him lying halfway down a dune, and he rolled onto his back and took the opportunity to rip off his disguise in some disgust.

If they were going to shoot at him regardless of what he was wearing, he wanted to be comfortable.

Then it hit him; the camel had been carrying all his supplies, his equipment, his firearms. Now all he had was a GPS transponder and a radio. Naturally, he started swearing once more, and then gave a testy status report, outlining his present situation.

The instruction was to stay exactly where he was until further directions came, and for once, Alex was happy to oblige. He had no idea what was going on overhead, but he wasn't going to risk getting himself popped by some wannabe soldier of fortune who was looking for a trophy.

* * *

><p>This resolution lasted all of two minutes. Apparently, seeing someone around these parts was rare enough that it warranted investigation, and it wasn't long before Alex could hear loud voices, arguing in Arabic. They were coming closer, moving across the dunes, but Alex couldn't make out what they were saying, the regional dialect defeating him once more.<p>

Whoever had designed this TactOP deserved a boot in the crown jewels, Alex thought savagely, and he skirted across the sand.

The men were moving between the dunes, taking the shortest route to avoid the loose sand and to conserve energy. After living in the desert all their lives, Alex knew they'd have a few tricks up their sleeves. Hopefully though, they hadn't seen him fall off his not so noble steed despite the spectacular display he was sure it had been, because their sight lines had been obscured.

Scrambling around a dune, he used the comparative height advantage to his benefit, keeping the dune between himself and the men, in order to get around behind them. He watched the two of them move, praying they wouldn't notice the mark that his sudden dismount had left in the sand, but no such luck.

They both examined the site of his fall closely, and then glanced around for footsteps to follow. It didn't take them long, as they spotted the remnants of Alex's desert disguise which they pointed to and began arguing about rapidly. Both men had assault rifles hung over their shoulders, and Alex knew that if he was going to make it out of the situation alive, he'd have to close the distance to them quickly, and not give them enough time to respond.

* * *

><p>Crouching, Alex padded across the sand, as the two many increased their speed, sensing the tracks to be fresh. In essence they were chasing him around one dune, but he knew it was a matter of seconds before they realised he was only metres away from them.<p>

As always, he had his knife handy, and grasped in his right hand as he stalked his prey, his eyes never leaving their backs. He moved diagonally up the dune, and peeked out over the lip, in time to see one of the men point at the footprints that indicated that he'd returned to where they had been standing only moments before.

Alex's moves were quick and efficient. He leapt out from above them, having used the natural ridge line of the sand for cover, and he collared both the men simultaneously, dragging them to the sand. He had no idea what either of the men were like when it came to hand to hand combat but he knew he could ill afford to bring their firearms into play.

The knife in his right hand found the jugular of the shorter of the two men, and suddenly it was a contest of only one man and a boy. Alex rolled to his right into a crouching position, but the taller man was still in a state of semi-shock, and was slower to react. Alex finished him before he'd raised his hand to defend himself.

It was in this lull that Alex noticed that his earpiece was no longer resting in his ear, and in a slight panic he reached for the transponder that should have been strapped to his waist; it was no longer there. All that remained of the systems was his microphone, but it was no good to anyone without the associated equipment.

He made himself breathe slowly, and think. It must have come loose or been torn off after he had been dragged by the camel he reasoned, so all he could do was retrace his steps, and see if it was anywhere he could find it. Slipping the strap of one of AK-47's over his shoulder, he set about examining the path along which he'd come.

* * *

><p><strong>I think I just about have the next chapter done, but I'm snowed under at school so we'll see when I get it finished. Hope some of you stuck with this and can actually recall what has happened already. I imagine some of you are going to be surprised to see that notification that I've updated...<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

After five minutes of searching, Alex gave up. Naturally, the GPS and its wrist brace were tan coloured to camouflage them against the sandy backdrop. Of course, no one had accounted for the need to find a yellow bracelet in a sand dune.

The wind had really picked up, and the sand whipped against Alex's pants as he considered his next move. Without his GPS or earpiece, he had no idea whether mission control knew where he was or had even realised that he was in trouble.

For all he knew, his indicator could still be producing a signal, and it probably was, given that it was intended for rugged terrain such as this, while bouncing along in the wind, suggesting that he was moving further and further away.

No, what he needed to do was to rendezvous with K-Unit, and get extracted with them too. He wasn't going to risk being stuck in the Tunisian desert for the rest of his probably short life.

* * *

><p>Once he had made the decision to move, Alex did so quickly. Tacking East so as not to approach from the same direction he had departed in, he then began to move towards the fort, which he could still see over the crests of the dunes.<p>

He paused at the border between the end of the sand dunes and the plateau upon which the fort was set, wondering quite how he was going to cover the distance without being spotted. His question was answered for him.

There was a serious of deafening detonations from inside the walls of the fort, but no discernible damage. Alex knew what was happening though, and he only had to wait a few seconds for the massive plumes of grey smoke to appear, rising over the walls and enveloping the entire structure.

K-Unit had been given newly developed flash canisters that were prototype hostage rescue equipment. This was their operational debut, and Alex didn't think it was hasty to suggest they'd be very successful.

* * *

><p>From his vantage point, he saw four shapes descend on parachutes into the structure, unseen by the forts occupants. K-Unit had arrived.<p>

The men on the walls were facing outwards, trying to avoid inhaling any of the smoke, when Alex saw one of them glance in his direction and point.

Alex made his decision, and suddenly he was up and running, unhooking the AK-47 from his shoulder, and bringing the sights up to his eye, lining up the shot. Safety disengaged, he pulled the trigger, only to be met with resistance.

The stupid thing was jammed which would never have happened with the old Kalashnikov models, clearly the sand having got the better of the cheap imitation. Alex cursed the mercenaries for not taking better care of their weapons, and tossed it aside as he ran.

The men on the walls had spotted him, but the smoke was severely inhibiting their ability to react to the threat. Alex heard the unmistakeable noise of suppressed gunfire, and realised that he was being provided with the perfect cover; the SAS were doing their job from the inside out.

He sprinted across the sand, removing his Beretta from his pants pocket as he did. The SAS unit may have lost the element of subtlety, but Alex was still an unknown quantity in the fight, and he intended to make use of that fact.

The only entrance available to him, however, was the ruined front gate, and as soon as he reached the vertical sight-line cover of the forts walls, ensuring that no one would look out and see him unless they happened to lean over and stare straight down, he headed for the front entrance.

The smoke was billowing out the front entrance, but it was dissipating quickly enough that Alex could bearably enter the sandstone structure.

He knew that the block that had been designed for housing prisoners during the Second World War lay just to the right of him, and moving under the arch of the gatehouse, he made for it.

All the fort's occupants were decidedly preoccupied with the goings-on that were resulting in several of their peers dying, and so no one was watching the proverbial front door.

The sound of gunfire was deafening now, as the mercenaries emptied their assault rifle rounds into thin air, or so Alex hoped. He was a little worried though; just from the sheer number of weapons going off, K-Unit was heavily outnumbered.

The wooden door to the prison bunker was closed, but Alex had no intention of trying his luck through another front door. Instead he skirted around the building, and using a rubbish pile at the rear of the building, clambered onto the roof.

Dimly, through the evaporating smoke, he could see a figure on the roof, firing wildly into the distance, clearly panicked. Alex stole up upon him, and quickly and quietly put him out of his misery.

Ignoring the corpse completely, he set about hunting, until he located what he was searching for; an air vent. Saharan buildings needed constant airflow, and as a result, usually had large rectangular holes just below the roof line to stop the hot air pooling on the ceiling.

Alex swung himself down, and slid feet first into the building. He straightened almost immediately, and raised his Beretta, squeezing off a shot into the back of the head of the man who he had guessed was covering the doorway. The thud was muffled as the body slumped to the stone floor.

* * *

><p>It was extremely dark inside the prison block, the only light available being that provided by the slits that had been cut into the roof. The building was all one room, and clearly anyone else who had been in there had departed at the first signs of trouble. Alex spied the cells at the back of the room, and made for them.<p>

"What's going on?"

Jeremy Mendelssohn's voice was weak, but there was no mistaking the British lilt; Alex had found the cargo.

Grabbing a filthy rag from the table opposite the cell, he made himself a cowboy bandana to cover the lower part of his face and mask his voice. He didn't want to give himself away as a 17 year old boy rather than a man, because what he needed in that moment were for his instructions to be followed without question.

"Stand back," advised the muffled voice of Alex Rider, as he drew his pistol, and fired a single shot vertically down through the rusty lock on the cell door. Then it was a simple matter of a firm kick to shatter the half blown off bolt.

Jeremy Mendelssohn showed all the signs of having spent a month as a hostage. He was wearing the ragged remains of a suit, but the jacket was nowhere to be seen and the shirt, pants and shoes were torn and scuffed almost beyond recognition.

His skin was sallow and pale, as four weeks without any sunlight will do, and he had clearly lost a lot of weight. The members of his entourage were huddled at the back of the cell, and Alex could only see bright eyes shining back at him. They were clearly all very weak.

"Is anyone seriously injured? To the extent where they cannot walk?" Alex asked loudly, worried that his job was about to get a lot more difficult. To his credit, Jeremy Mendelssohn seemed to be holding it together and he shook his head weakly.

Mendelssohn had been assigned priority one status, meaning his survival was paramount to that of all the rest of his entourage put together, but Alex had no desire to leave any of them behind.

"Alright, everybody on their feet!" Alex commanded, as the group of six individuals struggled to stand. "There is going to be no limousine waiting at the door to take you home ladies and gentlemen! We are heading for the cover of the dunes directly opposite the front entrance to this fortress. You will move in single file, and you will make every effort to minimise your footprints. Understood?"

Alex knew that physical exertion would be a struggle for many of them given how little movement they had been allowed in the past month, but he wasn't going to allow them to stop and feel sorry for themselves. He couldn't afford to, their lives depended on it.

"Alright, Mr. Mendelssohn, you will take the front end of this line, I will bring up the rear. Concentrate on staying an arm's length away from the person in front of you, keep your head down, and watch those footprints!"

The minimization of footprints was an old tracking trick, albeit an extremely basic one, the idea being that any search party would be looking for evidence of six people, not one or two like Alex hoped it would appear. However basic it was, anything that would buy them some time could potentially be the difference between getting hunted down or collected by the chopper.

Alex rushed to the door, and opened it just a crack. Seeing no one around he opened it fully, and ordered the group to acclimatise their eyes to the bright light. He gave them only thirty seconds, because it was all they could afford. He pointed to the main gate, and pushed Jeremy Mendelssohn towards it.

* * *

><p>Every step seemed to take an eternity for Alex, as the civilians seemly shuffled their way towards the entrance. The pace was glacial in Alex's mind, and his eyes swivelled constantly, willing all the people with guns to concentrate of K-Unit for the time being.<p>

His luck was holding, and they made it out of the entrance, as the gunfire from the ramparts failed to lessen. K-Unit were both giving and receiving an absolute shit-storm of live fire from everywhere it seemed, but Alex couldn't afford to worry about them. He had enough on his plate already.

They were only yards outside the wall when the woman in front of Alex tripped and tumbled into the sand. She was wearing a torn blouse and a pencil skirt, with high heeled shoes that had been snapped at the heel so they were virtually impossible to move in. She lay face down in the sand, desperately trying to raise herself, forlornly scrabbling as the lack of a solid surface betrayed her.

Alex cursed, and bent down, and in a fluid motion he had her in a fireman's hold and was rushing to catch the back of the line of escapees that were slowly approaching the perimeter of sand dunes. The woman knocked uncomfortably against his side, and he could hear her moans of pain as he ran, but Alex soldiered on.

It had taken forever, but the cover of the dunes was suddenly at their toes, and Alex shouted at them to move deeper, further away from the fortress. At this point he took to the front, pushing through the treacherous sand while carrying the extra weight.

He would not let them rest until they had put some more distance between themselves and the walls of their place of captivity, striking out into the desert. Eventually, when another member of the entourage collapsed, Alex stopped the group. He could only carry one person at a time.

Alex found a relatively flat spot, and instructed those who could still move to scour it for any notable hazards in preparation for the helicopter extract. Under the sweltering heat however, he found that he was the only one who could force himself to slowly move across the plateau to make it safe to land upon. The rest were either unconscious, or on the path towards blacking out.

* * *

><p>The thudding of rotor wings in the sky is deafening when it comes close, and Alex heard them coming a mile off. Waving his hands in the air, he was worried that they wouldn't spy him, standing on the tallest dune he could locate. It wasn't long though, before the seven black specks were registered by the helicopters pilots, and Alex sprinted down the dune, and waved them onto the safe landing spot.<p>

The RAF Chinook that had been selected for the operation had been stripped down to its bare bones to give it the maximum range possible. There were no interior fixtures, the equipment crane and racks had all been removed, the sensory relays had been stripped down, and only the only personnel onboard were the two pilots.

The helicopter had refuelled just before it had entered Tunisian airspace on a US aircraft carrier that was enforcing the no fly zone in Libyan airspace in response to the revolution that was occurring, but there was no chance of a repeat performance on the return journey. The US would not risk in international incident in a situation it stood to gain nothing from. Especially since they had signed a UN resolution forbidding the utilization of ground forces.

Alex shielded his eyes as the sand was whipped up by the propellers, and he located the body of Jeremy Mendelssohn and hauled his dazed form into the cargo hold. The second pilot helped Alex move all of the now collapsed escapees into the helicopter one by one as the blades continued to whip up the sand dunes into a fierce and stinging storm.

* * *

><p>If either of the pilots register that Alex was a 17 year old boy, they didn't show it. Instead Alex rushed to the cockpit of the helicopter.<p>

"Are you in contact with K-Unit?" he demanded.

"Yessir. They are pinned down apparently, inside the structure. Here's a spare commlink," he offered, holding out a headset.

Alex took the head set and rammed it onto his head desperately.

"This is Cub, speak to me, this is Cub, come in!"

"Cub, this is Mary Poppins, reading you loud and clear. Well done on securing the cargo, extraction will commence immediately. Over."

Anger coursed through Alex's veins. His fury was uncontrollable.

They were suggesting that K-Unit should be left to fend for themselves. In the middle of the desert. In a country where they weren't supposed to be, without transport, food or water. It was a death sentence.

"No!" shouted Alex, yelling into his microphone, "I will not leave them behind. Do you hear me? I will not let this helicopter leave without K-Unit!"

"That's a negative Cub; tier one cargo takes priority, that's regulation."

"I will shoot anyone who tries to make this helicopter take off!" Alex shouted at the pilots, who were suddenly looking nervous.

"Cub, this is the army protocol, as designated in the mission op! Insubordination will not be tolerated! Mendelssohn has been designated tier one priority by the National Securities Advisor who is overseeing this operation himself!"

Alex was sure he was going to commit murder if he ever got back to London. The National Securities Advisor had raced to the top of his shit list in the space of a week.

"Fuck Matthews-Prosser!" screamed Alex furiously, looking slight deranged, "I'll kill him if I make it out of this shit hole! I'll tear his limbs off and then skin him alive. You never leave a man behind!"

And then for the second time today, Alex destroyed a radio system. Except this time it was because he threw it on the floor and stomped on it until it was almost powder.

Turning to the pilots, he demanded that he was given a direct channel to K-Unit, the emergency only channel. They did as he said, the pilot's hand shaking uncharacteristically. They must have thought he was completely mental he mused slightly more lucidly as he was assaulted through the earpiece with the sounds of explosions and gunfire.

* * *

><p>"Wolf, Wolf! Do you read me? Come in, it's Cub!" he tried to shout over the din.<p>

Even over the thud of the rotor blades, the sounds of the battle that was occurring inside the fortress walls was clear for all to hear, with or without the headset.

"Cub? Where the fuck are you?"

"Taxi's here Wolf, and I've got the girls. Time to get them home!" he shouted back, and he thought he heard a characteristic chuckle from Bear.

"Alright they're pulling back slightly; now that you've extracted the hostages, give us 10 minutes to get out of this mess! Bear, hostages are clear; we're a go with the explosives!" Wolf cried as Alex heard Bear cheer in the background

Alex smirked before he replied.

"I'll keep the champagne on ice lads, don't worry."

* * *

><p>The image of three members of K-Unit, with Bear carrying Eagle over his massive shoulders, sprinting away from the sandstone structure as a series of massive explosions ripped through the desert air was a sight for sore eyes.<p>

Alex couldn't help but feel relieved as he saw that Eagle was still lucid, having taken a couple of stray shots to the leg, nothing that couldn't be fixed. Similarly, Wolf had a bullet lodged in his shoulder that he'd failed to mention to anybody, and Snake had been the luckiest of the lot of them, with an ugly looking gash where a ricochet had apparently grazed his neck, taking a chunk with it. All of them had shrapnel wounds and scrapes and lacerations all over their bodies, but as the chopper lifted off, the pain was numbed by the sensation of triumph and no small portion of relief.

Like the professionals they were, Alex and K-Unit set about tending to the civilians first, handing them bottles of water with the instruction to the lucid ones to drink them in dribbles despite the temptation to pour it down their parched throats. Their bodies were weak from their captivity and malnourishment and mistreatment had to be undone carefully.

When it was established that none of the civilians had suffered serious injury, Alex and Bear strapped each one onto one of the six gurneys that had been bolted to the floor of the chopper to transport the exhausted hostages in a manner that would best allow them to rest and recuperate.

Wolf, Snake and Eagle were sitting at the rear of the chopper, tending to their own far more serious wounds with tweezers for the shrapnel, and bottles of extremely painful disinfectant for their more serious wounds.

Outside, the special long-range Boeing CH-47 Chinook was thundering across the Tunisian desert, heading straight for the coast, barely a quarter of an hour into its almost 10 hour, 1168 mile journey back to Gibraltar.

The entire operation had seemed like it had taken a lifetime to Alex, but in reality it had only just clicked over the half an hour mark by the time the chopper had lifted off. It had been an unreserved success, and although the Tunisian air force would scramble their own jets, it would make no difference; no one would register the unmarked helicopter, flying below radar level, exiting Tunisian airspace until it was far too late.

* * *

><p><strong>Don't know what to say really... bet you were surprised though, if you're still following this story. Depending on whether you are, I may very well get another chapter out sometime this week. Although I may have said that before and been wrong, but I'm about 2000 words in so it's looking good. Also I know a few of you expressed a distaste for all this army stuff, but this is the end of it I promise. I just wanted to involve K-Unit because they're not going to appear in his main mission. As always, leave me a review, probably telling me how much you hate me for not updating :) <strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello again... this chapter was a real struggle for me, I've been fighting with this story a bit to push it in the direction I want, but it won't obey me a lot of the time, and I end up rewriting or deleting parts. **

* * *

><p>Upon their arrival back at Gibraltar airbase, they were met by teams of medical and emergency service crews. Alex had been forced to strip down to civilian clothing for the purpose of remaining anonymous, and annoyed him no end when Bear started mothering him in the most patronizing manner possible.<p>

There was some muttering from the concious rescued hostages about Alex's apparent age, or lack thereof, but Bear tactically mentioned that they would be 'home in time to celebrate Alex's 22nd birthday', and no more was said on the issue. Bear looked mighty pleased with himself for this unexpected bit of cunning, and nearly gave the game away in the process. Alex could only smile at the stupidity of K-Unit's most immature member.

Snake, it turned out, had several bullets lodged in his leg, and was going to need some serious recovery and recuperation time. He was lying on a gurney, talking quietly with Wolf who had his arm in a sling and was looking dopier than usual as the morphine dulled the pain of the wound to his shoulder. All of them had cuts and scratches especially to the forearms and shins, which were unprotected by body armour, except for Alex, who had emerged relatively unscathed.

* * *

><p>The previously unconscious hostages were beginning to rouse themselves from the shocked stupor they had found themselves in, and some were asking to call relatives and friends, and asking when they were going to be discharged. Fortunately the worst any of them had suffered was severe dehydration and muscle atrophy from a month's worth of inactivity. While no one was allowed near a phone to call relatives until they had been fully debriefed, their transport home had landed and was refuelling, and there were no military transport planes this time.<p>

No, Jeremy Mendelssohn clearly had powerful friends, and more importantly, rich friends. A LearJet was waiting on the tarmac to ferry them home, a model known as the LearJet 85 according to Mr. Mendelssohn.

Alex was prepared to put up with a certain amount of arrogance from the man he had just rescued in light of his response to the initial suggestion that, because the jet could only seat ten people plus a crew of two, K-Unit should wait for alternative transport.

Jeremy Mendelssohn had rubbished this idea when he learned that Bear had his commercial pilot's licence, and had insisted that he be allowed to take the co-pilots place, whatever the expense. He insisted that he would not allow any of the men who had risked their lives to save his to hang around waiting "lord knows how long for the government to rescue you from this god-forsaken rock". Alex appreciated the gesture, and wondered how exactly this man had become friends with a spineless wonder like Jonathon Matthews-Prosser.

* * *

><p>So Alex found himself seated in a sea of white leather, white walls and white carpet, somewhere over the Bay of Biscay over France, sipping gently upon a lemon squash that the automated drink service had produced from the magical hole in the wall next to him.<p>

He felt awkward in this setting, but he couldn't stop smiling because no matter how awkward he felt or looked, he knew Wolf was worse. The man looked like he'd entered an alternative reality, and coupled with his dislike of flying this was clearly the stuff of nightmares for him. Not that SAS members were soft enough to have nightmares.

If only that were actually true, Alex thought to himself as he stared out his window into the clouds, remembering the cases of PTSD he'd encountered in all areas of the armed forces. Life was tough for these men, but more so for the guys on rotation on the front lines. The fear of roadside IEDs, suicide bombers and car bombs left many a soldier scarred more than physically.

* * *

><p>His depressing reverie was broken by the intercom noise, and Bear's voice coming through the speakers.<p>

"Uhhh... Am I on? Cool, ok so I've got the Prime Minister on the line, he wants to talk to you lot. I'll patch him through as soon as I... shit how does this thing work? Umm... Jesus... Yeah so you should be good to go... Mr. Prime Minister sir,"

Alex's laughter was matched by some of the aides of the plane, as the Prime Minister's voice echoed through the speakers just like he was back at Brookland and the principal was telling students to not graffiti the back of the bike shed for about the fiftieth time.

"I'm just calling to check up on the wellbeing of you and your aides Jeremy, and wish you a safe flight home. Unfortunately I cannot be there to welcome you off the plane but you have my best wishes. I would also like to extend my thanks to the members of K-Unit for the astounding body of work you have done in bringing home our citizens and one of my closest friends, so thank you."

Alex looked over at Wolf, who appeared, if it were possible, even more uncomfortable than he had ten minutes beforehand. He had no experience around politicians, the army was his life, and this was all foreign to him.

"Co-pilot, is Alex Rider aboard please?" the Prime Minister asked, still on the speakers, "my daughter wishes to speak with him, privately."

Alex's jaw involuntarily collided with his knees. He could have parked a small truck in that gaping expression.

Oh no. Dear gods no, Alex thought, his scowl now very prominent.

There was no mistaking the gleeful tone of Bear as he responded.

"He sure is Mr Prime Minister, I'll just patch him through, to the phone in the arm of his chair," he added for Alex's benefit.

Alex removed the handset from the slot and moved to the rear of the plane, hoping the noise would cover the conversation so he'd never have to relive it. Unfortunately the noise of the engines while in the rear of the craft also meant he had to plug his left ear to hear what was being said.

"Alex!" came an excited shout from down the line.

Alex winced.

"Hello Sienna," he responded with about a tenth the enthusiasm, if he was being generous.

"I'm so glad you're okay, nobody shot you or anything horrible like that. Do you know what this means?" she asked, her voice piercing through the phone speaker.

"Thank you for your heartfelt concern," Alex deadpanned, "and I have no idea what it means."

"It means you can escort me to my senior debutant ball!" she half shouted down the line.

Alex was speechless.

"Isn't that wonderful?"

Silence.

"Alex?"

"You really couldn't wait until I'd finished helping save the lives of six people to ask me whether I would take you to your high school dress up dance?" Alex said at length, incredulous to the extreme.

"Daddy," Alex heard the unmistakeable voice in the background now, still audible down the line, "I don't think he wants to go with me, and I've so been looking forward to seeing him again. Why won't he go with me?"

"Of course he'll go with you darling," came the response, slightly louder, certainly for Alex's benefit.

Alex swore, covering the phone temporarily and took a couple of deep breaths before putting on his best 'rainbows and unicorns' voice to affirm that he indeed would accompany her to whatever it was she wanted him to go to, before wishing her a hasty goodbye and hanging up as soon as he thought he could get away with.

* * *

><p>It was then that he realised there was a slight echo in the plane. Or not an echo so much, as another speaker that was broadcasting his conversation. Bear hadn't switched off the feed to the main cabins speakers, and as he turned to look at the nine people he was sharing a plane, and a private conversation with, the desire to murder the largest member of K-Unit almost overcame him.<p>

A couple of the aides were openly laughing, Jeremy Mendelssohn was doing his polite best to cover his chuckles as coughs, Wolf was staring at him like he'd just landed from another planet, and Eagle had his arm around Snake and they were both howling with laughter. Snake even had the audacity to give Alex a mock pitiful look, despite the fact he was the one who probably wasn't going to walk for a month or two.

Why could nothing in his life be simple, Alex raged silently as he took his seat, picking up one of the magazines from the convenience stand and burying himself in it.

* * *

><p>The passenger jet touched down smoothly at Heathrow Airport, and Alex wondered whether they were going to be forced to exit through the civilian terminal. Of course, enough money can get you anywhere, and Jeremy Mendelssohn wasn't short of a dime.<p>

They taxied into one of a series of hangers, away from the main part of the airport, where all the private planes were held and maintained.

Bear emerged from the cockpit in time to give Alex a wide grin as the steps folded out from the side of the aircraft, and he stood and gestured grandly towards Jeremy Mendelssohn, inviting him to disembark.

One by one they filed out, Alex waiting until last so he could mutter a few choice curse words at Bear on his way past.

The hanger was large, but there were no other aircraft in it, a not unexpected scenario. The operation had been top secret, and no one would know who had undertaken it except those involved in its planning and execution.

There was a small pack of family members, government ministers and other assorted bureaucracy present, and K-Unit and Alex were all handed fresh balaclava's by a conspicuous man in a sharp black suit, standing at the top of the gangway as the exited the plane. MI6 operative Ben Daniels, formerly known as Fox of K-Unit, was looking relieved and smiled as he held out the fabric garment to Alex, while blocking anyone else's view of the transaction.

"This is for your benefit, but it would raise questions if you were the only one wearing them. The Prime Minister wanted the press allowed in, so they're waiting outside until you're ready. It's a PR stunt with an election on the horizon, you know the drill, answer no questions, and keep to the back of everything and anyone."

Alex shook his head and gave Ben an appreciative punch on the shoulder, which he had already been rubbing after Bear had done the same thing.

"He's a bad influence on you," Ben Daniels muttered as Alex chuckled under the fabric.

His smile didn't last long however.

Striding out of the crowd came a red face, blotchy with utter rage, heading straight for Alex. Clearly the balaclava didn't fool everyone.

Suddenly the air was tense, and Alex felt the assembled family and friends watching the exchange taking place from behind them, unable to miss the shortish man who was literally quivering with rage.

Jonathon Matthews-Prosser grabbed Alex by the collar of his fatigues, and pulled Alex's cloth-concealed face close to his own beetroot coloured one.

"Agent R... You have the temerity to disobey a direct order on the battlefield from your commanding officer and the head of National Securities? You think this is going to go unnoticed or unpunished?"

His voice was quivering with rage, and Alex realised that he must have been in the command centre issuing the orders directly when Alex had defied his commands. Pieces of spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, unable to contain his anger. The agent he held close had no such concerns.

Alex's voice was cold. He didn't have to justify his actions to anyone. This man made him sick to the stomach.

"_You_ may abandon your men when your neck is on the line, but I will not. Any soldier in the world will tell you that you never leave a man behind, and that is why you are a spineless pen-pusher who risks other people's lives because of his own ineptitude. You're not fit to lick the slime off my squad-mates boots. Head of National Security? If you're going to make up a title to disguise the fact you're a lap dog, at least make it believable."

Alex's voice never wavered, and the pitch never changed. He simply said his piece and then stood silently and waited for the inevitable eruption to occur.

Jonathon Matthews-Prosser's entire body was now shaking, as he uttered a garbled curse, and raised his hand as if to strike Alex.

"You insolent little prick!"

Alex was too quick for him. Grabbing his arm in his left hand, Alex twisted it behind him until he heard a crack, and then followed up with a powerful Muay-Thai style elbow to the jaw and temple region.

If Alex hadn't lowered the unconscious man to the ground by his shoulder, he would have hit the tarmac like a sack of potatoes.

Somebody shouted "Oh my god!" before Bear pulled Alex away by the arms, swearing to himself.

* * *

><p>Everything was frantic now, as Alex stumbled slightly under the force of Bear's grasp dragging him along.<p>

"Shit Cub, what are you doing?" he breathed into Alex's ear, as he pulled him away, "you've just laid out the NSA chief, the Prime Minister's right hand man. And I thought I was the one who did stupid things in this team."

Alex wasn't perturbed in the slightest, indeed, if his face had been visible, satisfaction probably would have been the best description of his expression.

"That pathetic piece of shit wanted the Chinook to leave you to fend for yourselves in the Tunisian desert. All he cared about was saving Mendelssohn's skin, the rest of us could get torn limb from limb for all he cared," Alex spat venomously, "and he didn't even have the stomach to do it himself, he made one of the Mary Poppins overwatch boys pass on his messages. I want to rip his throat out and impale him on the flagpole outside Downing Street."

"Holy shit. Well, at least I've had a positive influence on your threats vocabulary. Maybe that's what I'll tell my mother when I see her next, that I've been 'positively influencing the lives of children', she'll absolutely love that," Bear said solemnly.

"Did you hear me? He wanted to leave you to die face down in the sand!" Alex repeated, looking shocked that Bear hadn't reacted.

"Mate, he's a politician. That's how they are built, they care about people who can help them. Once you're done helping, you're disposable. There are plenty more of Wolf, Snake, Eagle and I in little huts in Brecon Beacons or at HQ in Hereford, at least in his books. We're tools of the trade, and we always will be. That's the life of a soldier for you."

Alex had no reply to this.

Alex allowed himself to be pulled away into the break room for the aircraft mechanics and aerospace engineers, which was an empty room. Bear and Alex sat in silence at the table, Alex swigging water from the bottle he'd filched from the fridge while they waited.

"I hope he tries to give an interview like that," Alex said, breaking the silence, "looking like he's just gone ten rounds in a cage with a grizzly bear."

"Honestly Cub, what the hell were you thinking? You just KO'd one of the most powerful men in the country, and you're sitting here like nothing's happened. You should be shitting bricks knowing what's coming to bite your arse."

Alex chuckled slightly, and took another quick sip.

"MI6 can't get rid of me. I might make things difficult for them occasionally, maybe even infuriate them, but I know firsthand that they can't do without me. This mission was nothing compared to what I've got lined up in the next couple of months, you think they'd jeopardize that much prep work cause I laid some smarmy desk jockey out on the tarmac?"

"Cockiness isn't becoming Cub," Bear replied seriously.

Alex's smiled slipped slightly and nodded. Bear wasn't serious very often outside of the field, but when he was it was sincere.

"I know, I know, I shouldn't have done it, turn the other cheek and all that. But that man is scum, as yellow as they come. You would have reacted the same way if you'd been the one in the cabin when Wolf, Snake and Eagle were out on the ground and someone had suggested you leave them behind."

Bear said nothing, but their pondering of this point was interrupted by the door opening.

Tulip Jones face was expressionless, but Alex could tell she wasn't happy.

"Thank you soldier, I'll take over from here. You are dismissed."

Her voice betrayed no emotion as she sent Bear out.

"Yes ma'am," Bear replied, nodding at Alex as he stood and exited the room.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Rider," began Ms. Jones, preferring to stand at the table rather than take the empty seat, "I don't know where to begin."<p>

She unwrapped a peppermint from its little foil wrapper almost by habit, and slipped in between her lightly chapped lips. As always, here attire was overtly formal, a grey power suit and skirt that finished below her knees, and black heels that raised her only an inch.

Alex, for his part, was fairly certain that if he'd taken the time to rummage through her wardrobe when he'd held a gun to her head during the SCORPIA affair, he'd have been assaulted by a collection of clothing exclusively black or various shades of grey. Ms. Jones' wardrobe, however, was not the topic of discussion that she had chosen.

"This is the second time in consecutive missions that you have been up for disciplinary action as a result of insolent conduct and disobeying direct orders. This is a stain on your permanent record, and may result in some form of punishment, and if Mr. Matthews-Prosser has his way, certainly."

"If you think I'm going to apologise to that imbecile, think again!" Alex announced loudly. He wasn't going to be pushed around by the man that was so willing to sacrifice men to further his own ends.

"Agent Rider! Regardless of the individual circumstances, this blatant disregard for the instructions given to you by your superiors cannot be ignored! You know full well that if you were enlisted in the regular manner that this would be cause for you to be dishonourably discharged."

"Frankly Ms. Jones, I couldn't give two figs," Alex said, his eyes flashing angrily.

The woman breathed out, as if steadying herself, and she took a new direction.

"Alex," Ms. Jones said, softening her voice as she addressed him more personally, "Jonathon Matthews-Prosser is on route right now to see the Prime Minister. He made it abundantly clear that he is going to ask for your immediate employment termination, and your expulsion from MI6."

"Let him try," Alex said defiantly.

"If he succeeds, you will no longer be protected by your status as an agent, your diplomatic immunity will be stripped from you record, and you will be completely exposed. Alex, Matthews-Prosser isn't stupid, regardless of what you might think. If he removes your immunity, he can have you court-martialled for insubordination and assault, like any regular soldier could be. If you are interned in military prison, there's no telling what could happen to you."

"He wouldn't dare. No military tribunal would convict a soldier of insubordination for saving the lives of his men. He'd be a fool to even try."

"Alex, remember who we're talking about here. This man, while he may lack certain personal charms occasionally I'll agree, is the ultimate networker. The military is his plaything in this government, he has unprecedented control. Do not suppose for one second that because you believe that what you did was right that it will protect you."

"Nuremburg defence. Trials of Nazi war criminals who were convicted despite arguing they were acting on orders from superiors, because they legally were required to act on morality not upon the orders they had been given. It's exactly the same as this scenario, but in reverse," Alex said confidently, his mouth stretched into a smile.

"You are over-confident, and place too much faith in the system. We will do our best to protect you Alex, Alan Blunt is going to speak with the Prime Minister personally on your behalf, but you have to understand the gravity of what you have done. I hope the Prime Minister has forgiven you for that stunt you pulled with his daughter."

"He better have," muttered Alex darkly, "somehow I ended up getting stuck taking his daughter to her prom."

Ms. Jones didn't quite know what to say to that.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey so I know some people hate long AN's... but I'm not going to stop doing them. I'll just apologise afterwards :) So the next chapter should be the last before Alex heads off to Italy, just a few loose ends to tie up first. On another note, I would just like to thank you guys for almost getting me into triple figures for reviews, it's a great feeling when you see people's feedback on something that has taken a bit of effort and/or time. Also thank you to those of you who have added this story to your favourites or alerts, that is also very flattering. As always, thanks for your support and patience, and if you have a second please take the time to review and push this story past that magical hundred review mark! **


	14. Chapter 14

Alex almost wished he was being court-martialled again.

Three weeks had passed since the assignment in Tunisia, and he was once again standing in front of his mirror, trying to get the knot on his bowtie to look like they did whenever his tailor had tied it. Of course, he couldn't, and had to make do with his own inferior effort.

He hummed gently as he laced up his shoes, and considered what had befallen him since he had landed back on British soil. It had been a relatively hectic fortnight, especially given the trial and all.

Now that it had happened, the court-martialling incident seemed insignificant, but Alex could still recall the slight trepidation at being called in front of that virtually empty courtroom. It had been co-opted for the solitary purpose of conducting the review of the Tunisian operation, which had been codenamed Fishhook.

The review was conducted at the behest of Jonathon Matthews-Prosser, regarding the accusations of insubordination and assault, seeking "Agent Alex Rider's immediate and complete dismissal from the direct and indirect employment of any government agencies or subsidiaries." Alan Blunt had tried to argue against even holding a trial, according to Ms. Jones, but the Prime Minister had given his assent to pursue the case under internal party pressure from defence force allies in the government.

So Alex had sat in the box usually reserved for the criminally accused while Matthews-Prosser had given his evidence to the panel of four men and one woman sitting in five high backed leather chairs at the judges tables. They listened intently as the blundering National Securities Advisor tried to justify his own actions while painting Alex as a rogue, unreliable agent with no future.

The panel of judges was not made up of simply any run-of-the-mill military figures either, in light of the nature of the accused. Naturally, there was no record of the case ever having been heard, and the entire court building had been emptied of anyone who hadn't signed an OSA at least once in their lives. In the court room the only people present other than the accused and his accuser were the five judges, all of whom Alex recognised from his time in the Prime Minister's war-room from various operation briefings. They were made up of two senior military generals both from the Army and Airforce, whose jurisdiction Operation Fishhook had fallen under, as well as the Minister for Defence, a retired army general who was the director of military prosecutions, and finally the sole woman on the panel, the head of MI5.

Normally, Alan Blunt would have sat in on a case involving an occurrence such as this, but Matthews-Prosser had successfully argued the likelihood of bias towards his own operative. Not that it had made any difference to the outcome in the end.

In a majority decision of 4 to 1, with the only dissenting judge being General Michael Weening, an apparent close friend of Matthews-Prosser, the panel ruled to clear Agent Alex Rider of the insubordination charge completely, and abstain from punishment in light of evidence of self-defence in response to the assault charge. All four members of the SAS and Ben Daniels had given testimonies via video-link that Alex had not raised his hand first.

Jonathon Matthews-Prosser announced two days later, while speaking on BBC News that evening, that he had decided to resign from his post in the government effective immediately, as a result of "undue stress" taking its toll. He looked forward to spending more time with his family and young children.

Alex couldn't help the broad grin spreading across his face when he heard the news.

* * *

><p>David Atherton, otherwise known as the Prime Minister, had contacted him in the days after, and apologised for putting Alex through the process, blustering on about 'due process' and 'justifiable positions'. Alex had simply politely agreed with him, and it had almost been a relief when the Prime Minister's daughter had taken the phone away from her father to confirm that Alex was still accompanying her to whatever it was she was doing.<p>

Since that rather needlessly painful and awkward split second where Alex had, in a moment of weakness, agreed to accompany her to her senior school ball, all he had done, besides participating in the trial, was study.

Normally, his teachers would have been delighted at this unexpected turn of events, but he had not touched a single schoolbook in the process of this patch of dedicated revision. In fact, the only book he had touched was bound and had no cover apart from a brown piece of cardboard.

Alex had been bitterly disappointed on some level when he received his first briefing dossier and it had not had 'TOP SECRET' stamped across it in big red letters, but he got used to it. All mission briefings and background information handbooks were unmarked and untraceable to anyone outside the organisation. Alex also happened to know that they contained a miniature trace inserted in the layers of the back cover, to remotely track where they were being kept via GPS.

Of course, the special lead lining of Alex's roof meant no foreign signals could get in or out of his house without him providing explicit digital permission, but MI6 were content knowing that if they couldn't trace the dossier then it was still exactly where they wanted it.

The seven hundred and thirty-two page document was not Alex's favourite thing in the world after reading it almost non-stop for three weeks, but it was his bible. During the day it lived on his kitchen table or the kitchen bench, and in the evening it came to sit on his bedside table while he slept. It was the live-in girlfriend he never had.

Now though Alex patted the book with a mixture of resentment and regret, feeling that even another night spent poring over the nearly four hundred pages of useless surveillance reports and grainy photographs that looked like they had been taken by some camera from the 1900's was still preferable to the alternative.

Because somewhere out that door, waiting for him, was a young blonde woman who was expecting to be treated like a princess by a boy who routinely committed acts of violence and espionage on behalf of his country for a living. His training had not prepared him for this at all, and he was about to receive an unwanted crash course in upper-class social life.

* * *

><p>Alex shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of the limousine, rubbing the shoulders of his jacket. It was a fraction too small, a result of it not having been tailored with him present but rather having been designed from measurements that someone had found somewhere. Apparently it was of vital importance that all the males wore the same style tuxedo. Alex would have preferred to have had the Anderson &amp; Sheppard one he had designed to conceal his Beretta, but their priorities apparently differed.<p>

He tugged at the silk shirt that had accompanied the entire ensemble, which had turned up at his gate one afternoon, as the London night streamed past in silence. The driver had offered to put on some music and gestured to the bar fridge but Alex had ignored both these suggestions. He had an idea he was going to value silence in the next couple of hours, and as attractive as being less lucid during the upcoming experience sounded, alcohol was not something he was interested in using. Anything that impaired motor or mental function made you vulnerable to surprises or mistakes.

His "date" had been at Gibson Hall in Bishopsgate, North London for the past hour and a half with her parents, as was apparently customary. The girls put the final touches on their outfits and their parents mingled for early refreshments and snacks. Alex had been given the full rundown on the procedure, but he was almost certain his etiquette would leave much to be desired.

Debutant balls, according to Sienna Atherton anyway, were originally a fixture of the royal court, which had been discontinued in the 1950's. St. Paul's School for Girls, ever ones for tradition and ceremony however had decided, in light of their numerous pupils with royal or aristocratic lineage, to revive it as a social event and reclaim it from the Americanised concept it had become.

Women wore white, ivory or light pink with dress trains that they held over one arm, with pearl jewellery, and were presented by their mother's to their selected male partner for the evening. It was no wonder no other schools in the country held them, the costs for everyone involved were simply staggering.

* * *

><p>Gibson Hall was 150 years old, an impossibly regal stone building with the statues of previous monarchs lining the roof, illuminated eerily from below as they surveyed the north bank. The limousine pulled up behind two others who were queuing to drop off guests, and Alex noticed with some annoyance that there were actually photographers waiting to snap the young bachelors as they arrived at their prestigious social event.<p>

The rise of the internet had been a nightmare for security agencies and trying to keep their employees faces off the web, and events like this were particularly difficult. MI6 had grudgingly agreed to provide someone from Smithers' division whose entire job for the next few days was to make sure that every photo of Alex that turned up on a social media profile anywhere surreptitiously disappeared. If only the taxpayer could see how their hard-earned was being spent by the government, Alex chuckled to himself.

Sliding out of the backseat of the car quickly and quietly, Alex stepped onto the pavement behind the photographers, and slipped between the bank of men with cameras and the external wall of the building, and in through the front door before anyone realised what was going on. He wasn't waiting around to have flash bulbs go off in his face, and for his face to inadvertently appear on a gossip blog. Of course, they were photographing high school kids, and to them one slipping through the cracks here or there made no difference, so he was forgotten as soon as he crossed the threshold.

* * *

><p>It was like stepping into something from the middle ages. Everything that wasn't marble was marble wrapped in gold leaf. His dress shoes made a muffled thud on the lush red carpet as Alex walked along, drinking in the ornate design and architecture.<p>

"Your name please sir?"

There was a man standing a raised sidebar, with what was clearly a list of guests in a large book.

Alex had to pause and think before he responded.

"Alessio Rinnovato," the boy replied with an accent, still admiring the building's interior.

"Ah Mr. Rinnovato, welcome to Gibson Hall, sir. If you would be so kind, first door on your left will lead you to the outdoor garden area, where your peers are waiting."

Alex couldn't help scoffing slightly at the description of these other boys as "peers", but he followed the man's instructions anyway. He was well aware that he was distinctly out of place as a plebeian whose parents didn't own a large corporation or hold some archaic title or distinction. Sienna had informed him one of the numerous phone conversations she'd felt the need to have, that he'd be at a table with a Lord Digby, which apparently was supposed to mean something.

Sienna was also unhappy when she'd been informed that Alex would be adopting the moniker "Alessio Rinnovato" for the duration of the evening, as practice for his upcoming deployment in the south of Italy. Alessio was the Italian contraction of Alex so any forgetfulness by Sienna could easily be passed off as demonstrating a close relationship, but MI6 felt it prudent to give Alex some experience familiarising himself with the individual and his back story before he used the identity in the field.

Alex had felt it would be unnecessarily pedantic of him to point out that the guests at this event were unlikely to care two iota's about his or anyone else's life unless it helped their own, from Alex's experience.

* * *

><p>The small reception garden at the rear of Gibson Hall was barely large enough to contain the couple of hundred guests that had arrived and were milling about, munching on canapés and sipping champagne. The bubbly was not any of the 'white sparkling wine' variety either, it was the proper stuff imported from the northern region of France, with the three and four figure price tags. Everything here screamed money at the top of its lungs.<p>

Alex was one of the last guests to arrive, a move that had most certainly been deliberate, and he pulled out his phone from his pocket and his finger hovered over Sienna Atherton's name on his screen. Every time he called her he felt he was reinforcing that it was acceptable for her to reciprocate and call him, which was not something he wished to encourage. And naturally, as the saying went, give them an inch and they'll take a mile, she would call him at least six or seven times for every solitary call he gave her. He was certainly going to have to invest a new phone and number when all this was over. Well, get Smither's to build him a new one anyway.

"Alex! Where have you been?" came the high pitched keen in his ear, causing him to jerk the speaker away from the side of his head.

Deep breaths.

"I'm here now," he replied calmly.

"You were supposed to arrive early so I could make sure nothing was wrong, and the presentations start in fifteen minutes! You better get over here right now!"

"Where exactly is over here?" Alex replied, peering around.

"At the very front, silly! We're leading the class out."

"Of course we are," Alex muttered sullenly. "Sienna," he added more gently, "remember, it's not Alex tonight, its Alessio yes? You can't tell your friends who I am, or else I will have to leave."

"Yes, yes, just get over here already."

"Oh my god! What did you do to your hair!" came the shout as Alex approached.

Sienna rushed towards him, holding her left glove, her eyes wide in shock.

Alex's hair was a dark brown colour, a far-cry from his usual blonde 'surfer' look. The dye was another formula of Smithers', an amazing concoction that would not decay or fade over time, nor could it be washed out by soap or water. Instead, the only way to get rid of it was to rinse ones hair in chilli sauce. Smithers had offered to demonstrate the functionality of this system when Alex had first applied the dye, but Alex had unsurprisingly declined. He wasn't keen on rinsing his hair with chilli sauce only to have to re-dye it later. He wasn't particularly keen on the chilli sauce idea at all, really.

Sienna gave Alex a once over, looking him up and down.

"Well I guess you still look like you, if just a little different," Sienna said, before lifting Alex's arm above her head and twirling underneath it.

"So, what do you think?" she asked when she was facing him again, still clasping his hand in hers. Naturally she was more concerned with her own appearance than any secondary considerations.

Alex froze for a second, before remembering the social etiquette in these scenarios.

"You look... very nice," he replied haltingly.

"Ohhhh," Sienna replied, looking at him brightly, "that's quite an accent you have there, _Alessio._"

Alex had been training with the voice coach in the past month had helped him a great deal. It was one thing to speak a language fluently, but to sound like you had spoken it your entire life was an entirely different matter. Whenever he'd been forced into any human interaction since his return from Tunisia, he'd spoken exclusively in an Italian accent. It was still discernibly different from his instructors, but his cover story of having an English mother hopefully explained that adequately.

"Mr. Rinnovato," said a voice from behind him, unmistakeably the tone of the nation's Prime Minister.

Alex turned to find himself indeed faced with David Atherton and his wife Samantha. Alex shook hands with both of them awkwardly, and Samantha Atherton looked particularly shocked as if she expected him to do something completely different. Which he supposed he was probably expected to, but observing social customs had never been high up on his bucket list.

He was feeling a bit like he was at the centre of a Mexican stand-off with both the elder Atherton's staring intently at him, and Sienna alternating between staring at him and staring at her parents. It got very awkward, very quickly.

It was a relief then when Sienna tugged on his sleeve, and suggested that they go any prepare themselves. David Atherton opened his mouth as Alex turned to him, as if making to say something but thought better of it. Alex was mightily relieved about that too, he didn't fancy having one of _those_ talks with the country's leader and more importantly the father of the girl who he was escorting.

* * *

><p>Another day, another social function. Alex was beginning to wonder whether he was actually even employed by MI6 anymore, or whether they'd traded him to a private security company, and not bothered to tell him.<p>

He was currently standing at the bottom of a grand staircase, which had been installed specially for the event, while David Atherton stood at the podium as he finished his keynote address to the assembled family and friends.

"And finally, it is my privilege to welcome this year's debutantes, from St. Paul's girl's school! Please welcome to the podium Mr. Hewlett to conduct the formal proceedings for the evening."

David Atherton departed the podium across the stage, and took up the empty space next to Alex in the wings. Behind them, stretched out in a long line, was a queue of debutante escorts and their partner's fathers, waiting to be introduced.

Alex stiffened as he felt the hand of the Prime Minister slide across his shoulders, as the man lent in and spoke in hushed tones.

"Mr. _Rinnovato_," he began very quietly in Alex's ear, "my _only_ daughter is extremely fond of you. Consider this a friendly reminder, do take advantage of her. You are a fleeting, childhood crush, nothing more."

That was a command not a request.

Alex simply nodded slowly, and arm slid off his shoulders, seemingly satisfied its intimidation had been successful. Internally, Alex could have died from embarrassment, as the boy standing behind him smirked knowingly and gave Alex a wink.

* * *

><p>Samantha Atherton stood at the podium now, and spoke confidently to the assembled guests who were not parents of children participating. She spoke confidently and clearly, but Alex wasn't really surprised; she looked as if she had been created with social functions in mind.<p>

She waffled slightly, before turning and introducing her husband, her daughter's partner and finally the star of the entire production.

Sienna, even to Alex's eye, looked stunning as she glided down the staircase with practiced grace, taking an inordinate amount of time to descend what were perhaps twenty steps. Alex stood at the bottom like he had been instructed to repeatedly, and waited until she had reached the bottom and had turned to face him. He proceeded to bow, and she curtsied, and Alex offered his arm as a light smattering of applause broke out.

Only then were they allowed to descend the stairs off the stage following the nations Prime Minister and his wife. Unfortunately, while her parents took their seats at a table, Sienna led Alex to an open space in the middle of the room.

"What's going on?" Alex whispered as Sienna turned to face him.

Behind them there was more applause.

"What do you mean what's going on? They're conducting the ceremony still. It wasn't just for me silly," she giggled softly.

"No, I mean why are we standing here? What are you doing..." Alex trailed off as Sienna moved to stand very close to him, and took his hand in hers.

"We're waiting for all the other girls and their partners to be announced, and then we dance our opening piece," Sienna responded.

Alex almost collapsed.

"Dancing!?" he whispered as furiously as he could muster without being loud, "no one mentioned dancing!"

"You're at a debutant ball, dancing is compulsory! What did you think was going to happen?"

"A bit of show, then a hearty meal, and then you'd go out, drink yourself into a stupor and pass out?" Alex replied hopefully, that option now sounding infinitely more preferable to the apparent alternative.

"You can dance, can't you?" asked Sienna suddenly, ignoring Alex's less than flattering guess.

"I haven't danced a step in my life," Alex muttered.

"What!" Sienna half shrieked, startling the occupants of the nearest table, who looked scandalized at the outburst. "Ballroom dancing is compulsory at all schools that I know, how have you not learnt it? You're going to embarrass me in front of some of the most powerful people in the world, and all of my friends, how could you do this to me?"

Alex couldn't help a mocking laugh escape his lips which he tried to cover as a cough.

"You really are the most sheltered, immature girl I have ever met. Can you even hear what comes out of your mouth sometimes?" Alex replied darkly, as he detached himself from Sienna's grasp.

"You... you ungrateful swine!" she shouted, as the entire room now turned to stare at the pair of them, "I invite you to the most important event of my life, an opportunity that hundreds of guys would die for, and you turn up unable to dance and then you insult me!? I've never been so humiliated in all my life. You're a scoundrel, and I hope one of these days someone finally manages to kill you, Alex Rider!"

Her final words hung in the room as Alex stared at her, his eyes black. Without a word he slipped off his jacket and deposited it at her feet, before turning and striding away while the entire room watched in a mixture of silent awe and disapproval. Alex couldn't give a toss. He was done with high society.

* * *

><p><strong>Ermmm... hello again. We seem to keep meeting like this. Anyway, forgetting that it's been like two months since I updated, I hope you enjoyed nearly four thousand words of good... well whatever you think it is. I feel I should point out that Gibson Hall is indeed a real place, and an extremely elegant one at that. To prove somewhat to you guys that I haven't forgotten you, I've actually been compiling photo albums of the places and towns I have used or that I intend to use, I'm hoping some of you will be interested in seeing all these amazing houses and locations I'm using, because they mostly exist in real life. I will, however, have to go through and hide some of the albums until those places pop up in the story, to avoid confusion. That should come with the next chapter, and of course I'll put the link on my profile, and remind you guys then!<strong>

**I'd like to give a special thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, it was the most reviews I ever received on something I'd written, and it was extremely flattering, so thank you! If you have any opinion or are interested in seeing some of these photos (I think I've compiled nearly 70 so far) drop me a review and let me know.**


	15. Chapter 15

_16 days, 2713km, or an aeroplane flight, three rickety boat trips and two truck trailer journeys later..._

Train stations were loud places to be. Italian train stations were positively insane.

Alex stood in line at La Spezia Centrale, waiting in a queue of impatient people to hand over his two unmarked fifty Euro bills in exchange for a train ticket that would take him from his current location on the north-western coastline, all the way to Villa San Giovanni on the southern tip of the mainland.

As he moved to the front of the line, he extracted his identity card a flashed it at the teller behind the counter, who didn't even blink. Italian personal identification still had not progressed past a rectangular printed card, as despite the best efforts to adopt an electronic system, there had been little success.

Italians, in their current economic state, simply didn't care enough, and had meant that making Alex a forged Italian ID card had been simple enough that he could almost have done it himself. Of course, Smithers' replica was flawless, not that it had needed to be.

Alex handed over his hundred Euros, taking his eight Euros in change as well as a single trip ticket to the other end of the country.

The late evening breeze was brisk as he boarded the train, and Alex settled himself into an economy class seat at the rear of the train, ready to commence the 12 hour journey that would take him almost to his final destination.

As the train sounded its horn, and the light whir of electronics buzzed as they moved away from the platform, Alex paused to recall his odyssey to even make it to the Italian mainland.

His journey over the previous fortnight would not go down as one of his favourites. In fact, it had been something approaching a nightmare.

* * *

><p>He had flown to the military base at Gibraltar two days after the fiasco at Gibson Hall, on a moderately sized cargo plane containing only him. He never even saw the pilot's face, before Ms. Jones met him on the runway, and ushered him into a separate wing of the airport for final briefings.<p>

Observe and analyse had been the message that was repeated over and over again to him by MI6's deputy head, and to learn what he could about the history and relationships of the individuals involved from the lengthy yet sparsely informative mission preparation folder that had been sent ahead, which contained much speculation, but little hard evidence.

In the dead of night he had been dropped into the northern part of Algeria by a low level reconnaissance plane that had been specially co-opted in to enter the airspace below effective radar level. He had landed on the outskirts of an Algerian town called Annaba, known as 'the people smuggling capital of Africa'.

The Annaba Coast is one of the most infamous illegal immigration sources in the world, with individuals from all corners of the globe coming to the city to negotiate passage into the European world of opportunity and prosperity.

* * *

><p>It was perfect for Alex then to slip in through the Italian border without ever appearing on an airport or docks' CCTV camera, nor having an entry appear on the police or border security database, regardless if it was under an alias or not. This mission was being conducted with the utmost paranoia, and no shortcuts would be taken in its execution.<p>

After negotiating passage from Annaba to La Spezia, where his false identity's family had been based according to the narrative of his backstory, he had boarded a ship to transport him on the perilous journey from North Africa to Europe. The craft that he had chosen was the most solid looking on offer, and given that price meant nothing to him, he had no qualms about parting with a large portion of his funds.

He couldn't afford to take any great sum of money with him for fear of arousing suspicion, so any excess would have to be dumped. His conscience wanted him to gift it to someone who needed it, but it was too risky; his fingerprints were all over crisp five hundred and one thousand Algerian Dinar notes, which he didn't want circulating in Italy.

The boat had taken him from Annaba, Alegeria to Sardinia, where the occupants of the craft were met during the dead of night at the docks at Pula on the south coast, and unceremoniously loaded into a shipping container. From there, a truck drove them north to another port, where the container was placed on a barge that traversed the narrow straight between Santa Turisa Gallura, the most northern point of Sardinia and Bonofacio, Corsica's southern tip. From there they picked up another truck and then finally another ship, which was supposed to be transferring empty containers back to the mainland. The trip in the container from Corsica to the port in La Spezia was one of the most unpleasant journeys of Alex's existence.

Huddled into a tiny rectangular shipping can, the twenty-two adults and seven offspring slept as best they could in the virtual pitch darkness, punctuated only by the occasional flash of the single torch with which they had been provided and the screams and cries of hungry and uncomfortable children. Needless to say the container was not opened for any reason during the journey, and when Alex finally arrived on the Italian port in the early hours of the morning he had stripped off and thrown himself into the sea to cleanse himself of the smell and filth that naturally the 40 hour trip had built up.

Most of the other illegal immigrants had organised to go onwards on their journeys to join up with family members or for specific jobs on farms or in factories, and departed immediately. Alex, however, took three days in La Spezia familiarising himself with the city as best he could, to make sure his cover was airtight. No amount of pre-mission reading could replace spending time in a location as prep work.

* * *

><p>The city of La Spezia looked out over the Gulf of La Spezia on the Ligurian Sea. It was a town whose entire existence centred around the sea, providing livelihood and employment for most of the residents. La Spezia was Italy's biggest naval port, as well as a fishing town, housing the largest navy base in the country. This accounted for both of Alessio's fathers professions, making it the perfect cover story.<p>

And finally he had come to the last leg of his journey. The train stopped at almost every station on its 12 hour route south to Villa San Giovanni, but that was planned also. Alessio Rinnovato was the son of a single, poor fisherman who had been discharged from the Navy base at La Spezia ten years prior; he would be unable to realistically afford anything better than the cheapest fare on offer.

The back-story for Alex's persona was neither particularly deep nor complex. He was the son of an Englishwoman who had abandoned her partner to flee back to Britain when Alessio had only been a year old, and his father was a dishonourably discharged sailor in the Navy, who had drowned in rough seas while working on a fishing trawler. The purpose of Alessio's current passage to the island of Sicily was to go to live and work with his father's brother, Roberto Rinnovato.

Roberto Rinnovato was a real person, but the official records showed he had a brother, who had given birth to a son. In reality, he was an only child with no living relatives. His Sicilian heritage had made him the perfect candidate for MI6, who had planted him as a sleeper agent nine months before the mission had even been mooted for Alex.

Ms. Jones had insisted Roberto had been placed there for very basic surveillance and had not been put there in preparation for the operation, but Alex wasn't so sure. MI6 were always thinking several steps ahead.

Alessio's uncle Roberto was, like his imaginary brother, a fisherman with his own barely seaworthy boat and a business selling to the local market that scarcely kept him out of bankruptcy. Of course he would have a nice fat MI6 account waiting for him when this was all over, but who knew how long that would take. He had no family, and no close ties. He was a quiet and private man, who kept to himself, and nobody knew much about. In short, he was perfect.

'Alessio' would go to work for his uncle while he bided his time and waited for an opportunity to present itself, if one ever did.

Much had been made in the mission briefings that Alex had received, as well as being printed on every second information document he had been given, that the families of Sicily were as tightly held and insular as any group could possibly be. Outsiders were generally not welcome in the inner sanctums, and individuals not known to the families were wasting their time and potential risking their lives by trying to force their way in.

Alex would not make that mistake. He would be patient, he would wait for the chance to arise, and he would pounce on it.

* * *

><p>The coast sped past as the train thundered south down the western seaboard, and Alex watched as the tracks slowly moved them away from the ocean on his right on the approach to Roma Termini, the largest station in the in the largest city in the country.<p>

La Spezia Centrale was a station in somewhere between a small city and a large town. Compared to Rome however, even at midnight, the hustle and bustle seemed miniscule. He had boarded the train from La Spezia at 8 o'clock that evening, and it arrived for its scheduled half an hour changeover in Rome almost four hours later, at nearly midnight.

Alex's only travelling gear was his rucksack, which was full of appropriately dishevelled clothing that he had purchased with some of his remaining Euros while he had traversed his pretend home town. Alex had discarded all his extra cash into the sea before he'd arrived at the station, to make sure it could never be traced back to him, and so found himself with no way of purchasing any kind of snack or refreshment. Instead he sat on the bench at the far end of the platform, and waited for the next train.

Alex would, under normal circumstances, have stayed awake during a journey such as the one he was undertaking currently, making sure he was alert and attentive to everything that was going on around him. The voyage in the shipping container had taken its toll however, and two consecutive nights of screaming children and the constant smell of bodily functions had made him feel exhausted and nauseous. He broke his two hour sleeping rule, and placing his rucksack on the unused seat next to him, curled up in the back corner seat of the back carriage, and dozed off.

The remainder of the journey, all eight and a half hours of it, was little different from the first four hours, except slower. The train stopped at even more stations now, as weary travellers hopped on and off his carriage every few minutes. Alex, despite his lapse into a more normal sleeping pattern, slept lightly and awoke every time the train stopped purely through force of habit.

His fitful rest came to a halt with the arrival of the train at the station in Villa San Giovanni, and Alex hauled his rucksack over his shoulder and disembarked from the train onto a quiet, early morning station platform.

Bordered on each side by elderly and decrepit housing blocks, the train station didn't possess a particularly inviting feel; it wasn't hard to spot the economic divide between the north and south of the country in a place like this. Nevertheless, Alex exited the train station into the brisk morning air and sort to make his way to yet another sea port.

Alex wandered north, in no particular hurry to get to the crossing point as he neither had a ticket nor a timetable for the ferry. The town held little appeal to outsiders, but then again the south of the country was like being in a completely different state. Alex wouldn't quite have called this part of southern Italy developing world, but it was approaching something resembling it.

The sea port was a dull mixture of rusted ships, squawking seagulls and grey, overcast weather when Alex arrived on the docks, staring out over the expanse of water towards his destination; Messina, the sea town on the coast of Sicily.

This was the last part of his journey, and he was relishing being able to finally start what he had come to do.

Ferry tickets cost nearly 30 Euros each, and while even the train ticket had seemed a bit of a stretch for the son of a poor fisherman, MI6 in their wisdom had declared that it would add 'legitimacy' to his back-story if Alessio Rinnovato arrived as a stowaway on the Stretto Messina ferry.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. Now, to Alex's mind, it seemed like a waste of time and an annoying inconvenience.

The rucksack was a pain in the rear end. It was heavy despite carrying very little, it was unwieldy and he was constantly banging into things when he turned around. It had made pick-pocketing a ticket from another passenger a great deal harder than it otherwise would have been, but Alex persevered. First he scanned the crowd waiting for the ship to lower the ramps, looking for eligible targets.

Next it was picking his way through the crowd. Unfortunately the Italians were not very forgiving about what was perceived as queue jumping, and the mutterings of discontent and displeasure made blending in very difficult. Similarly, having multiple pairs of eyes watching you meant the actual act had to be seamless.

In the end, Alex sidled up behind a man in a business shirt with his suit jacket hung over the briefcase he carried. Waiting until the ships bridge was lowered for boarding, Alex used the natural surge of the assembled crowd towards the boat to mask a stumble forward, as he bumped into the back of the businessman, and removed the ticket that was sticking out the pocket of his formal slacks with a minimum of effort and movement.

As the man bent to pick up his dropped briefcase and dust off his jacket with a scowl, Alex swept past him and flashed his ticket to the inspector on the pier, before boarding the ship and disappearing into the depths of the large ferry. A minute later, a shout of anger and frustration could be heard from the docks, as the victim realised he'd 'misplaced' his ticket.

After he was sure that his theft wasn't going to be found out, Alex stood at the bow of the ship, watching as they closed in upon the Sicilian coastline with a small sense of trepidation. This was going to be his home for the next few months, and while the island was more the twenty-five thousand square kilometres in area, he knew there was nowhere to hide if things went pear shaped. If you were no longer needed or wanted, this was a place where you could disappear and never be found.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: A couple of things here. Firstly, it's been a while, I know. A good long while, it's been Christmas and holidays but it's no excuse, two months is a very long time between drinks. Also, this chapter isn't that enthralling to my mind, and you've waited so long for it. So here's the good news; I've already written the next chapter and I'll post it tomorrow or the day after, I promise, to hopefully make it up to those of you still reading :)**

**As always, any feedback at all is greatly appreciated**


	16. Chapter 16

Over the next three months, Alex Rider truly became his identity Alessio Rinnovato. He had arrived in his Uncle Roberto's town of Porto Empodocle after hitching lifts down the coast on the backs of farmer's trucks and sleeping in barns and sheds, or out in the fields when there was no shelter to be found.

The town of Porto Empodocle was proud of its history as part of both the Greek and Roman empires, but the years had not been kind to it. Crime was at the epicentre of the towns problems, and tourism had begun to wane as the violence and corruption increased. One in five men could not find any form of work; all but a select few fell below the nation's already low indicator of poverty.

Roberto Rinnovato owned a fishing boat on the pier, a tiny tub of a thing that was held together with tape and prayers. Almost entirely covered in rust and decay, it was barely big enough for one person, let alone more. His uncle's house was no more than a stone shack a few hundred yards back from the shoreline, crushed on either side by the neighbouring buildings that were in no better state.

Much of Porto Empodocle was abandoned now, as people fled the poverty and violence in search of something better, but one of the things that remained was the market. At the centre of town, which was only three streets back from the shore, was the heart of the town's activity both socially and economically.

It was here that Alex found work while his uncle was away for days at a time at sea, stacking and moving crates of fish, which Roberto or other trawlers had caught, to the market stalls to be displayed and sold. Alex spoke little during these hours and days of heavy lifting and moving, only muttering his responses, but remaining ever watchful. His inability to converse in the traditional Sicilian dialect had been less of a problem than he had feared, but he avoided speaking or drawing attention to himself where he could.

The people of Porto Empodocle were not an inquisitive or suspicious bunch. They had their own problems, their own struggles, and cared little for the troubles of others. They worked their hands to the bone during the day, ate measly portions of whatever was on hand, and then slept in the evening. They were grim, and seemingly resigned to the inevitable struggles of life.

Alex liked to think of himself as a patient individual, a person who was able to detach himself when need be and simply act rather than think. Hours upon hours of transporting crates in the blazing sun had left him with both a dark tan and a short temper however. He had never spent so much time to achieve so little.

* * *

><p>"Did you go for a walk today?"<p>

Roberto Rinnovato sat opposite him at the small table in the kitchen, looking at his 'nephew' over a spoonful of cold fish soup. His uncle had been at sea for three days, scouring the Sicilian Straits for that elusive vein of late season Tuna that had been so lucrative in May and June during their peak.

His uncle was a tired looking man. He had reasonably light skin and hair for a man who had spent his life outdoors, but he was weathered. The sea spray and constant exposure to the sun had made him leathery, and his eyes did not shine like that of someone who took any pleasure in their work.

The phrase "did you go for a walk" did not refer to the usual interpretation of a walk. It was the accepted wording of an enquiry as to whether Alex had sought out any further the known locations of his targets, or even located some of the 'soldiers', as they were called, further down the food-chain.

The Bennevento family however were, unsurprisingly, very elusive. Alex had caught two glimpses of Bennevento family members in his time there, and both times he had been ushered away by surrounding security personnel totting pistols and even flaunting automatic weapons.

MI6 could have chosen any Mafioso family to target, but for this operation they were only interested in the very apex of the operation. So Alex was in Sicily attempting to get to the very top of the extensive food chain that was the Cosa Nostra – 'Ndrangheta alliance that had entirely monopolised the global drug trade from Europe to the Americas.

The Bennevento's only interaction with the local populous directly would have almost been comical if they weren't so real. In an effort to maintain loyalty not only through fear, they made occasional appearances in public to demonstrate their good-will and concern for the people by dolling out gifts, both of money and rare goods and items that were hard to come by.

Alex had twice now watched as the eldest son, Tommaso Bennevento, stood around soaking up the adulation of the desperate crowd while his lieutenants distributed cash gifts and artwork to the men, perfumes, jewellery and clothing to the women, and toys and sweets to the children.

It was a practiced routine, and the son, Tommaso, could barely hide the disdain he clearly felt for these people off his face. His appearances were rare, however, and the two times Alex had seen him had made little impact compared to the weekly occurrence the regular handouts were. Alex couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of the most powerful Mafia family being concerned about public image, but then again, history was littered with examples of mass-bribery. Governments were particularly prone to it prior to elections, Alex noted.

* * *

><p>As he cleaned away the remnants of the very basic meal that he had just shared with his uncle, he wistfully thought back to his kitchen in Knightsbridge, with its marble bench tops and stainless steel range hood.<p>

London seemed more than a world away. Tom would be doing his finals at Brookland, his classmates would be chattering and enquiring about his latest horrible illness, Alan Blunt and Ms. Jones would be safely holed up in their office on Liverpool Street.

As he lay his head down on the hessian-covered pallet that had been set up for him in the corner, he realised he'd almost forgotten what his bed at home had felt like. His SAS commander would have been disappointed in his lapse in training, but seven to ten hours of hauling fishing crates around, six days of the week, had led Alex to seek more and more sleep to compensate for the continued hardship and lack of stimulation. He was sleeping almost six hours a night in Sicily, and he knew Wolf would have been appalled. In all honesty though, Alex couldn't care less.

He had taken some time to get acclimatised to his new surroundings, but after ninety-two days of the same routine, he had gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline and the pungent smell of the sea in the air.

* * *

><p>Sun streamed through the newly opened window, colliding with Alex's eyelids in a most unpleasant manner. He groaned and tried to roll away from it, but his uncle Roberto wasn't having a bar of it.<p>

"Do not give me that rubbish, Alessio, you have work to do!"

His uncle had set a precedent on the day he arrived by referring to him only as Alessio. To him he had no other name and no other identity than that of a fisherman's boy who moved crates for a living. It made it much easier for Alex to assume the identity, for which he was grateful.

Alex's collection of clothing consisted of two sets of garments which gradually became dirtier and dirtier until he was forced to wash them, and himself, in the sea. He soon became immune to the smell however, as working with fish for hours on end masked any otherwise undesirable scents that may have built up.

Roberto was going out on the boat just for the day, so Alex made his way up the cobbled streets to the market stalls, jangling a few Euros in his pocket as he did so.

The early morning sun was providing little warmth, but Alex was attired simply in a loose cotton shirt and pants, with a pair of old hand-me-down leather boat shoes from Roberto which were almost worn through.

A large hunk of bread later from the nice lady at the corner bakery stall later, Alex arrived at the marketplace to be assigned his first crate of putrid smelling fish to be moved around. The day's work had begun.

* * *

><p>It was nearly sundown, and the afternoon's final rays were illuminating the sky as the seagulls circled above the leftover stock from the day's sales. Alex had moved crates all day, taking the opportunity to listen in on conversations that might have been of interest.<p>

He had noted that amongst the stoicism of the people, there was much cynicism as well, often no without cause. No government or regulatory body was trusted, as everything was linked at least indirectly with the Mafioso according to the patrons and vendors at the market. Nothing was immune, and no one did or achieved anything without their explicit permission. Needed to build or renovate? The Mafioso would organise a permit. Had a problem with "the law"? Charges could be dropped within minutes if you had the right connections.

Alex was packing away one of his final crates for the day, just thinking about his next move in the overall scheme of things, when he heard a gunshot ring out in the night sky.

There was a momentary pause when all the vendors and few remaining costumers hoping to pick up a late day bargain stopped, and registered how close the shot had been. Alex dropped the crate with a loud bang, which shook the assembled market goers out of their stupor. He heard an enraged shout from the owner of the box that he had dropped on the stone flagon road, but he ignored it as he ran down to the waterfront, immediately fearing the worst.

His shoes slapped against the road as he hurtled down the hill, his shirt billowing against the sea breeze. Alex had no idea what was going on, but he had knew Roberto was the only one of the four fishermen who moored their boat at that pier who was coming home after only a single day on the water. No one else would be down at the pier at this time of night, not usually anyway.

Skidding around the final corner as he grasped the signpost for leverage, he was confronted with a gruesome scene.

A man, who was indisputably his uncle Roberto, lay on the ground, clutching his stomach in pain as the red stain on his shirt spread. At his feet stood another figure, dressed in a full suit, with his back to Alex, masking his identity.

"You... you dare knock me... knock me over? You stupid peasant fuck... fucker, you dropped your filthy fish on my shoes... and my pants," slurred the unidentified stranger loudly at his prone victim, clearly drunk.

Without pausing, the stranger, who was apparently armed, fired another shot, this time at the chest of his uncle Roberto; just as Alex closed the distance and crash tackled the suited man from behind, bowling him over into the dusty street.

The body of Roberto's attacker cushioned Alex's fall, and he rolled off the top of him, and took the drunk man's arm and twisted it as he did so, forcing him to drop the gun in the process. The man gave a cry of pain, and Alex scooped up the gun and locked his opponent down, kneeling over his body with his legs pinning the man's arms to the ground as Alex pointed the gun into his face.

* * *

><p>It was at this moment that Alex realised that his 'unidentified man' was actually the aforementioned Tommaso Bennevento, eldest son of the Bennevento crime family, as well as Mafioso <em>Capo<em> and king-pin in the making.

"Oh shi..."

The words had barely crossed his lips when he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun-barrel being pressed into the back of his own head.

"Drop the gun. Do as I say immediately or I'll blow your head off."

He could hear the steps behind him, more than one person was there and they clearly weren't joking around. What in the name of all that was holy was Tommaso Bennevento doing on the shorefront, drunk, and shooting seemingly random people? Alex was immediately paranoid that he'd been discovered and his cover was blown, but Tomasso's inebriation suggested otherwise.

Alex wisely chose to drop his firearm, which he saw was quickly picked up by another man in a business shirt, while the gun continued to be pushed into the back of his cranium.

Then he was being shoved off the body he had tackled, as Tommaso Bennevento realised he was no longer in danger of being shot, and Alex fell backwards and was fortunate not to be shot himself.

"What the fuck?" screamed the enraged Tommaso, brushing down his shirt and pants furiously, "do you know these pants are worth more than you'll ever make in your worthless existence you piece of shit?"

His inebriation had clearly worn off slightly at the shock of having his own pistol waved in his face, but now he turned to the two men who had arrived with him.

"What are you waiting for Claudio, kill him! The little shit tried to kill me, fucking shoot him!"

Alex rolled over to observe in time to see Tommaso Bennevento spit on him, and unleash a furious kick to what would have been his groin if he hadn't moved his leg to block the worst of it.

"If you won't kill him, give me your gun so I can finish him off! I'll kill that little runt myself! Nobody does that to a Bennevento! Give me your gun Claudio!" he demanded, trying to wrestle the older man's arm to gain access to the weapon.

The man resisted the intoxicated struggle for his holster, eventually securing a grip on both his weapon and his charge's arm, holding him there.

"Tommaso. Tommaso! Tommaso, get it together! You've killed a civilian and now you want to off another one just like that? Your father is going to be angry enough as it is!" the man beseeched, and Alex began to see the relationship. This 'Claudio' and the other man were clearly minders for the eldest son of the Bennevento's, and Tomasso went from angry to sullen in the blink of an eye.

Claudio was clearly the bodyguard in charge, as he ordered the other man to collect Roberto's body.

Alex, who had been watching his fate being decided in silence, stood up quickly, and blocked the man's path to his adoptive uncle's body. The blood had seeped through his 'uncles' clothing now, and it pooled at Alex's feet as he stood resolutely guarding Roberto's corpse.

"Get out of the way peasant," growled the man, trying to shove Alex aside.

"You're a coward," Alex said clearly yet quietly, staring straight at Tommaso Bennevento as he did so, still resisting the attempts to remove the body.

"What did you call me?" demand Tommaso, moving to confront Alex until Claudio stopped him.

"You just killed his father, he is angry. Don't make this worse," said Claudio cooly, continuing to restrain his charge.

"He was my uncle, but it makes no difference. You're gutless scum to shoot an unarmed man in cold blood. You have no honour, no respect, no heart," Alex spat at the feet of the young Bennevento son, who was only a couple of years older than he. His words were inflammatory, but well placed. He sensed there was something here for him, if he only pushed a little bit.

Tommaso was breathing hard now, his eyes dark with rage.

"This... fisherman's boy... demeans me like that, and you expect me to stand idly by and watch Claudio?" he hissed.

"That was not wise my boy," said Claudio sadly to Alex, "you do not know who you have just insulted do you?"

"I know the surname this _yellow hearted_ filth carries," Alex spat, rubbing his face fiercely, as if fighting tears of anguish.

Tommaso had broken free of his minder's single handed grip, and advanced upon Alex, holding the barrel of a gun in Alex's face.

"Then you'll know that I can put a bullet in your head and throw you into the sea, and no one would lift a finger to stop me, now or ever? I am a Bennevento, we are untouchable!" he gloated, pressing the cold metal of his weapon into Alex's cheek.

"You wish to carry yourself like a man, but your actions are those of a child," Alex baited him, his voice gravelly with emotion, but showing no signs of the nerves that he felt. "You talk a lot, but there is no substance to shooting an unarmed man. No heart," he repeated. "You only fight battles which you cannot lose. That is not worthy of respect."

Alex was truly nervous about what he was doing. It wasn't in any of the handbooks he'd been given to read on psychology and manipulation of adversaries, well, the 'what to say with a gun to your head' part wasn't, but it was a simple tactic. Tommaso was both prideful and arrogant. He cared about what people thought about him. Alex was going to exploit that.

"You would only ever fight me with a gun in your hand, if I stood unarmed," Alex added grimly.

Tommaso stared at Alex for a moment, unused to be spoken to in such a manner, before a smile slowly spread across his face.

"You, you think you could best me in any form of combat?" he laughed mirthlessly, waving the gun about erratically. Alex's instincts were screaming at him to secure the barrel of the weapon and use the idiotic young man as a human shield or bargaining chip with his handlers. His mission would be in tatters however, and he was determined that his months lifting crates of fish would not be in vain.

"You would never dare risk your life in the lap of luxury and irresponsibility to defend your pretend honour. You ride your father's coat tails; you are nothing more than a spoilt brat," Alex retorted, as Tommaso closed the gap between them until their faces were inches apart.

"You have challenged my honour. I will have satisfaction," he breathed raggedly straight onto Alex's nose, who didn't blink. "I would fight you here and now, but with no one to see it, what is the point? I want the world to know what happens to those who disrespect a member of the Bennevento family."

He then turned to his minder, Claudio.

"Tomorrow is the ridiculous garden party mother insisted upon holding, is it not?"

"It is," was the short reply.

"Excellent. Tomorrow, noon, we will be the main attraction for my father and his guests at the festival banquet. We will provide tradition Sicilian entertainment with a display with knives. And they will watch as I cut you from your head to your toes for the words you've have said today. You will bleed like a stuck pig, just like your uncle, and I will display your head on a silver platter as a reminder to those who dare to think that their lives should worth anything to me."

Alex nodded simply, his face a mask showing no emotion.

"Good, no arguments then," smiled Tommaso Bennevento, "Claudio here shall pick you up an hour beforehand; to give you time to contemplate your impending death. Do not think of running away, fisherman's boy, or I will be forced to find you and prolong your suffering in a most excruciating manner," he chuckled, holstering his weapon.

He walked away from Alex, who stood still, not moving an inch.

"Enjoy your sleep, it will be the last your ever get!" Tommaso shouted as he climbed into the back of the four wheel drive that had arrived, and the other handler slammed the boot shut. It was then that Alex realised his uncles body had been removed in the tumult, without him even noticing. He watched, his shoes covered in Roberto Rinnovato's dried blood, as his newest enemy, and conversely his only contact with the Bennevento crime family, drove away leaving him alone on the pier.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As promised, here is an update only two days later! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, there's a bit of movement, a bit of development and a few new characters. I've had another PM telling me that this is strongly bordering on requiring an M rating, but I don't really want to tone it down too much, or at all really. If it comes to it, I'll probably push the rating up rather than sanitise my story, hope that doesn't put anyone off.**

**Anyhow, as always, any feedback is massively appreciated, both for it's own sake but also as motivation! **


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